IVATE  LIBRARY. 

ELMER  KNAPP. 


So 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.  DOROTHY  K.I.IPTON 


LEIGHTON    COURT 


HENRY    KINGSLEY'S    NOVELS. 


Uniform  edition.     16mo,  price  per  volume,  $1.00. 

RAVENSHOE.     Two  volumes. 
AUSTIN  ELLIOT.     One  volume. 

THE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  GEOFFRY  HAMLYN. 
Two  volumes. 

LEIGHTON  COURT.    One  volume. 


LEIGHTON    COURT 


A   COUNTRY   HOUSE   STORY 


BY 

HENRY    KINGSLEY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1895 


H5 


LEIGHTON  COURT 


part  fl 

Chapter  I 

THE  River  Wysclith,  though  one  of  the  shortest  in 
course  of  the  beautiful  rivers  of  Dartmoor,  still  claims  a 
high  place  among  them.  None  sooner  quits  the  barren 
granite,  and  begins  to  wander  seaward  through  the  lower 
and  richer  country  which  lies  between  the  Moor  and  the  sea. 
None  except  Dart  sends  a  larger  body  of  water  to  the  sea, 
and  none  forms  a  smaller  or  less  dangerous  estuary. 

Indeed,  its  course  is  so  exceedingly  short,  that  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Wysclith  Vale  Hunt,  whose  kennels  were 
within  a  mile  of  the  sea,  were  well  acquainted,  from  fre- 
quent observation,  with  the  vast  melancholy  bog  in  which 
it  took  its  rise.  More  than  once,  more  than  twenty  times, 
within  the  memory  of  old  Tom  Squire,  the  lean,  little  old 
huntsman,  had  the  fox  been  run  into  in  the  midst  of  that 
great  waste  of  turbary,  from  whence  the  infant  stream 
issues ;  on  ground  which  no  man,  leave  alone  a  horse, 
dared  to  face.  Laura  Seckerton  has  a  clever  sketch  in  her 
portfolio,  of  the  wild,  desolate,  elevated  swamp  as  it  ap- 
peared on  one  of  these  occasions.  A  sweep  of  yellow 
grass,  interspersed  with  ling,  and  black  bog  pits :  in  the 
centre,  far  away  from  human  help,  a  confused  heap  of 
struggling  hounds  killing  their  fox :  round  the  edges,  as 
near  as  they  dared  go,  red-coated  horsemen,  most  cleverly 
grouped  in  twos  and  threes ;  beyond  all,  a  low  ugly  tor  of 


Leighton  Court 

weather-worn  granite.  Laura  Seckerton  could  paint  as 
well  as  she  could  ride,  which  is  giving  her  very  high  praise 
indeed. 

On  a  hot  summer's  day,  if  you  had  crossed  the  watershed 
from  the  northward,  from  the  head-waters  of  the  Ouse  for 
instance  ;  and  if  you  found  yourself  in  this  desolate  lonely 
swamp,  with  no  signs  of  animal  life  except  the  cry  of  the 
melancholy  peewit,  or  the  quaint  dull  note  of  the  stone- 
chat  ;  you  would  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  anything  so 
wild,  fierce,  and  loud  as  the  river  Wysclith,  could  be  born 
of  such  solitary  silence.  But  if  you  hold  on  your  way, 
round  the  bases  of  the  low  granite  tors,  between  the  tum- 
bled rocks  and  the  quaking  bog,  for  four  or  five  miles,  you 
will  begin,  afar  off,  to  hear  a  tinkling  of  waters,  you  will 
meet  a  broad  amber-coloured  stream,  and  find  that  the 
many  trickling  rills  from  the  great  swamp  have  united,  and 
are  quietly  preparing  for  their  journey  to  the  sea ;  are  mak- 
ing for  that  gap  in  the  granite,  below  which  the  land  drops 
away  into  an  unknown  depth,  and  from  which  you  can  see 
a  vista  of  a  gleaming  glen  miles  below,  in  which  the  river, 
so  quiet  and  so  small  up  here,  spouts  and  raves  and  roars 
like  a  giant  as  he  is.  Right  and  left,  far,  far  below  you, 
are  crags,  tors,  castles  of  granite.  Twenty  streams  from 
fifty  glens,  from  a  hundred  sunny  lonely  hills,  join  our 
river  far  below  ;  until  tired  of  fretting  and  fuming  among 
the  granite  crags  in  the  glen  of  ten  thousand  voices,  he 
finds  his  way  out  into  the  champaign  country,  and  you  see 
him  wandering  on  in  wide  waving  curves  towards  his  estu- 
ary. All  this  you  can  see  even  on  a  blighty  easterly  day  ; 
with  a  clear  south  wind,  Laura  Seckerton  used  to  say,  that 
standing  within  two  miles  of  the  river's  source,  you  can 
make  out  the  fisher  boats  on  the  sands  at  its  mouth,  and 
the  setting  sun  blazing  on  the  windows  of  Leighton  Court, 
which  stands  on  a  knoll  of  new  red  sandstone  at  the  head 
of  the  tideway.  I  cannot  say  that  either  there  or  elsewhere 
I  have  ever  distinguished  drawing-room  windows  at  a  dis- 
tance of  eighteen  miles  as  the  crow  flies  :  but  I  confess  to 


Leighton  Court 

have  seen  the  vast  tower  and  dark  long  fagade  of  Berry 
Morecombe,  which  lies  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  block- 
ing the  westerly  sun  and  casting  a  long  shadow  over  the 
sands  towards  Leighton  Court,  when  I  have  stood  on  a 
summer's  evening  at  the  tip  of  the  lonely  marsh  in  which 
the  Wysclith  takes  his  rise,  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea.  Standing  just  where  he  begins  to  live,  and  whimper 
like  a  new-born  babe  over  his  granite  rocks. 


Chapter  II 

THERE  were  only  three  families  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try :  the  Downes,  the  Seckertons,  and  the  Poyntzs.  We 
shall  meet  them  all  directly ;  but  it  is  necessary  even  here 
to  say  that  the  Downes  (represented  by  Sir  Peckwich 
Downes)  were  eminently  respectable  and  horribly  rich. 
That  the  Seckertons  (Sir  Charles  Seckerton)  were  emi- 
nently respectable,  very  rich,  though  not  so  rich  as  the 
Downes  ;  but  that  they  had  entirely  taken  the  wind  out  of 
their,  Downes',  sails,  by  Sir  Charles  marrying  Lady  Emily 
Lee,  a  sister  of  the  Earl  of  Southmolton,  and  by  taking  the 
hounds  nearly  at  the  same  time.  And  lastly,  coming  to 
the  Poyntzs  (represented  by  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  younger  by 
a  generation  than  either  of  the  other  baronets),  we  are 
obliged  to  say  that  the  family  had  grown  so  utterly  dis- 
reputable, that  a  respectable  Poyntz  was  considerably  rarer 
than  a  white  crow.  The  third  family,  these  Poyntzs,  were 
what  the  Americans  call  "  burst  up,"  and  their  seat,  Berry 
Morecombe  Castle,  was  now  let  on  a  lease  to  Mr.  Huxta- 
ble,  a  Manchester  cotton-spinner. 

Sir  William  Poyntz,  that  very  disreputable  old  gentle- 
man, had  been  the  last  master  of  the  hounds,  and  had 
handsomely  finished  his  ruin  by  taking  them.  He  was  a 
sad  old  fellow,  and  kept  a  sad  establishment  there  in  the 
castle.  The  only  signs  of  decency  which  the  old  fellow 


Leighton  Court 

showed,  was  that  he  would  not  allow  any  of  his  sons, 
legitimate  or  other,  to  come  near  the  place.  Harry  Poyntz, 
now  the  baronet,  used  to  come  and  stay  at  Leighton 
Court ;  Robert,  the  younger,  was  only  dimly  remembered 
by  a  few  of  the  older  servants,  as  a  petulant,  wayward, 
handsome  child.  There  was  a  third  one  yet,  whom  some 
remembered,  a  very  beautiful,  winning  boy ;  but  he  had 
no  name,  he  was  not  acknowledged. 

When  Sir  Charles  Seckerton  took  the  hounds,  Mr.  Hux- 
table  took  the  castle,  and  very  shortly  after  the  wife  of  the 
latter  died,  leaving  him  with  a  little  girl,  heir  to  all  his 
wealth.  Sir  William  Poyntz  left  Sir  Charles  Seckerton  a 
legacy  also ;  he  left  him  old  Tom  Squire,  the  huntsman. 
He  was  a  silent,  terrier-faced  little  fellow,  who  seemed  to 
know  more  than  he  chose  to  tell,  as  indeed  he  did.  He 
was  a  jewel,  however  ;  he  had  hunted  that  difficult  coun- 
try for  many  years,  and  if  you  had  not  taken  him  with  the 
hounds,  you  might  as  well  have  left  the  hounds  alone. 

A  very  difficult  hunting  country.  Why,  yes.  Irish 
horses  strongly  in  request,  not  to  mention  Irish  whips  and 
second  horsemen.  A  stone-wall  country  in  part,  and  in 
part  intersected  by  deep  lanes  and  high  hedges.  Not  a 
safe  or  promising  country  by  any  means.  Bad  accidents 
were  not  unknown  ;  one  very  severe  one  had  but  recently 
happened,  just  before  my  tale  begins.  The  first  whip,  a 
young  Irishman,  O'Ryan  by  name,  had  ridden  into  one  of 
those  deep  red  lanes,  which  intersect  the  new  red  sand- 
stone hereabouts,  and  had  so  injured  his  spine  as  to  be  a 
cripple  probably  for  life.  Sir  Charles  had  pensioned  him 
with  a  pound  a  week ;  and  being  determined  to  try  an 
Englishman  this  time,  wrote  to  a  friend  in  Leicestershire 
for  a  first-rate  man,  fit  to  succeed  old  Tom  Squire,  the 
wiry  terrier-faced  ex-Poyntz  retainer  aforesaid,  as  hunts- 
man, when  he  should  retire  to  the  chimney-corner,  and 
twitter  on  the  legends  of  the  Poyntz  family  till  he  twittered 
no  longer. 

An  answer  had  come  by  return  of  post.     There  had 


Leighton  Court 

never  been  such  a  chance  as  now,  wrote  Sir  George  Her- 
age.  A  young  man,  possessed  of  all  the  cardinal  virtues, 
with  several  to  spare;  who  was  the  most  consummate 
rider  ever  seen,  could  tell  the  pedigree  of  a  hound  with 
one  moment's  glance,  of  gentle  temper  with  man,  horse, 
and  dog.  A  young  man  who  had  hunted  not  only  in 
Leicestershire  and  Berwickshire,  but  at  Pau ;  a  young 
man  entirely  up  to  every  conceivable  sort  of  country. 
Such  a  young  man  was  To  Let.  And  Sir  George  Her- 
age's  advice  was,  "  Snap  him  up  on  any  price  ;  the  more 
especially  as  he  has  expressed  to  me  strongly  his  intense 
anxiety  to  improve  his  already  great  experience  by  hunt- 
ing in  that  very  county  of  yours ;  indeed,  has  given  me 
warning  the  instant  he  heard  of  your  want."  On  further 
examination  of  Sir  George's  letter,  it  appeared  that  this 
young  Crichton,  Bayard,  Philip  Sidney,  St.  Huberts'  price 
was  extremely  moderate,  considering  his  amazing  virtues 
and  talents.  His  very  name,  too,  sounded  well,  Hammers- 
ley.  Sir  George  was  also  anxious  to  impress  on  his 
friend's  mind  the  fact  that  he  was  no  ordinary  person ; 
that  he  was  a  deuced  presentable  fellow,  and  a  fellow  who 
would  not  stand  much  talking  to,  but  was  perfect  at  his 
work.  Sir  Charles  thought  himself  in  luck,  and  passed 
the  letter  over  the  breakfast  table  to  Lady  Emily,  his  wife, 
to  see  what  she  thought  of  it :  by  no  means  an  unimpor- 
tant matter. 

Lady  Emily  was  making  a  somewhat  witch-like  mess  in 
a  china  basin,  the  basis  of  which  was  chocolate.  Sir 
Charles  had  seen  her  put  in  sugar,  brown  bread,  baked 
yam,  and  cream,  and  began  to  wonder  when  she  would 
begin  to  eat  it.  She  delayed  her  pleasure,  however,  and 
he  grew  impatient 

"  Emily,"  said  Sir  Charles  at  last,  "  I  wish,  when  you 
have  gone  through  your  morning  ceremonies  with  your 
olla  podrida,  that  you  would  look  at  that  letter." 

"  My  love,"  she  said,  "  I  will  do  so  directly."  And  she 
went  on  with  her  preparations  quite  regardless  of  the  im- 


Leighton  Court 

patient  exasperated  way  in  which  Sir  Charles  tore  the 
Times  open,  pitched  the  supplement  on  the  ground,  and 
rattled  the  other  part  open. 

At  last  she  had  done.  She  read  the  letter  steadily,  put 
it  down  again,  and  gazed  into  space. 

"  Well,"  said  Sir  Charles,  testily,  "  will  that  man  do  or 
no  ?  " 

"  I  do  wonder,"  she  said,  with  her  great,  cool,  high- 
bred voice ;  "  now  I  really  do  wonder." 

"  I  wonder  at  our  luck  in  getting  such  a  man  at  such  a 
time,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Lady  Emily.  "  I  wonder 
what  on  earth  this  paragon  of  a  creature  has  been  doing 
which  makes  Sir  George  Herage  so  exceeding  anxious 
to  foist  him  off  upon  us,  and  get  him  three  hundred 
miles  out  of  his  own  way.  That  is  what  I  am  wondering 
at." 

"  You  look  on  it  in  that  light,  do  you,  Emily  ?  "  said  Sir 
Charles. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Lady  Emily,  going  on  in  her  own 
line,  "  whether  the  fellow  is  good-looking,  and  has  been 
making  love  to  one  of  those  red-haired,  horse-breaking 
Herage  girls.  That  is  it,  depend  on  it.  Not  another 
word,  Charles — here  comes  Laura. 

"  My  dear  mother,  good  morning." 

"  You  think  he  ought  to  come,  then,  Emily?"  said  Sir 
Charles.  "  You  think  he  will  do  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Charles  !  Do  !  Such  a  paragon  of  a  creat- 
ure !  The  question  is  not  whether  he  will  do,  but  what 
he  has  been  doing.  I  have  the  deepest  curiosity  to  see 
the  man.  I  suppose  he  will  take  his  meals  with  us  :  what 
rooms  shall  I  get  ready  for  him  ?  " 

"  Then  he  had  better  come  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  in  my  line  at  all  to  say  yes  or  no.  If  my  per- 
sonal wishes  were  consulted,  I  should  say  let  him  come. 
You  seem  to  have  collected  all  the  available  rogues  and 
fools  in  the  South  of  Devon  about  your  stable  and  kennel, 

6 


Leighton  Court 

and  I  am  getting  tired  of  them.  I  want  to  see  a  rogue 
from  another  county  for  a  change.  Have  the  man 
down." 

"  My  dearest  Emily,  why  are  you  so  disagreeable  this 
morning  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  so  to  you,  Charles,"  said  his  wife, 
kissing  him  as  she  passed  him.  "  Since  you  have  taken 
me  out  of  society,  I  have  no  one  to  whet  my  tongue 
on  but  you,  you  selfish  man.  And  it  is  rather  cool  of 
Sir  George  Herage  to  try  and  foist  off  a  man,  who  evi- 
dently has  made  the  country  too  hot  to  hold  him,  on  to 
us." 

"  But,  Emily  dear,  I  won't  have  him  if  you  think  so." 

"  Have  him  down,  Charles,  by  all  means  have  him 
down." 

And  so  the  paragon  Hammersley  came.  And  no  one 
having  said  anything  against  it,  it  must  be  supposed  that 
everyone  was  perfectly  satisfied.  But  Lady  Emily  deter- 
mined to  find  out  the  reason  of  this  wonderful  recommen- 
dation of  Sir  George  Herage,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
She  neither  did  the  one  thing  or  the  other  at  first ;  but  she 
was  not  easily  to  be  beaten. 

Her  sister,  Lady  Melton,  on  being  appealed  to  by  letter, 
at  first  could  find  out  nothing  more  about  the  young  man 
than  that  Sir  George  Herage  had  picked  him  up  at  Pau, 
where  he  was  hunting  the  hounds  during  the  illness  of  the 
huntsman,  and  had  brought  him  home  ;  that  he  certainly 
understood  his  business  in  a  masterly  way,  but  was  un- 
civil, loutish,  quarrelsome,  and  rode  very  little  under  twelve 
stone.  Lady  Melton  added  that  she  had  never  seen  the 
young  man,  that  he  had  never  appeared  with  the  Quorn ; 
and  that  was  all  she  knew  about  him. 


Leighton  Court 


Chapter  III 

I  HAVE  described  the  lay  of  the  country  as  you  look 
from  the  mountain  down  to  the  sea,  and  will  describe  for 
you  directly  the  appearance  of  that  country,  looking  up 
from  the  tideway  towards  the  mountain,  from  the  terraces 
of  Leighton  Court.  But  my  eye  rests  on  something  in  the 
immediate  foreground  which  arrests  it. 

I  find  I  cannot  describe  the  dark,  purple  moor,  with 
Wysclith  leaping  from  rock  to  rock  down  its  side,  without 
first  getting  rid  of  two  figures  in  the  foreground.  From 
the  terraces  of  Leighton  Court,  which  surround  the  house 
east,  seaward,  and  westward,  one  looks  over  the  sandbars 
of  the  river,  here  beginning  to  spread  into  its  little  estuary, 
on  to  the  red  country,  beyond  on  to  the  flashing  cascades 
of  the  river ;  above  all  on  to  the  dark,  black-blue  moor. 
But  there  are  two  figures  in  the  foreground,  which  seem 
to  impersonate  the  scenery,  and  being  animate,  they  must 
be  looked  to  first. 

Lady  Emily  stands  nearest  to  us.  A  large,  handsome, 
gipsy-looking  woman,  whose  real  age  was  five-and-forty, 
but  whose  constant  good  humour,  and  the  fact  of  her  hav- 
ing had  her  own  way  both  in  the  county  and  in  her  family, 
for  some  twenty  years,  caused  to  look  ten  years  younger. 
She  was  a  noble,  kindly,  nay  jolly-looking  woman,  so 
very  like  the  nearer  parts  of  the  landscape ;  so  rich  in 
colour,  so  bold  in  rounded  outlines. 

If  Lady  Emily  stood  well  as  a  central  figure  to  the  blaz- 
ing reds  and  greens  of  the  fertile  red  sandstone  country, 
her  daughter  might  well  represent  to  our  fancy,  the  dark 
purple  moor  which  hung  aloft  in  the  distance,  furrowed  by 
deep  rifts  which  in  their  darkest  depths  showed  the  gleams 
of  the  leaping  torrent ;  and  yet  which,  through  ten  miles 
of  atmosphere,  seemed  little  more  than  a  perpendicular 
plane,  without  cape  or  bay,  prominence  or  depth.  She  was 


Leighton  Court 

a  little  taller  than  her  mother,  her  face  though  like  her 
mother's,  was  more  refined,  with  the  refinement  of  youth  ; 
her  face  might  get  a  trifle  coarser  by  age  (who  knows  ?), 
or  might  be  swept  by  storms  of  passion  ;  but  at  present, 
she  was  as  placid,  as  delicately  tinted,  as  lofty,  and  appar- 
ently a  thousand  times  more  unapproachable,  than  the 
mountain  on  which  she  gazed. 

People  tell  one  that  at  the  end  of  the  last  century  there 
was  a  school  or  party  among  people  of  rank,  whose  special- 
tie  was  the  extreme  care  with  which  they  educated  their 
women — a  party  who  hailed  Mrs.  Hannah  More  as  their 
leader  and  example.  Very  few  of  us  have  so  little  experi- 
ence of  life,  as  not  to  have  seen  and  respected  one  of  the 
old  ladies  thus  trained,  and  to  reflect,  one  hopes,  on  the 
very  great  deal  we  owe  to  them  and  to  their  influence. 
None  of  us,  however,  have  probably  had  the  luck  to  see 
a  more  perfect  specimen  of  this  type  of  lady  than  was  the 
old  Countess  of  Southmolton,  the  bosom  friend  of  Hannah 
More,  grandmother  of  Laura  Seckerton,  whose  gentle  in- 
fluence was  still  felt  in  her  daughter's  house.  She  had 
formed  Lady  Emily  upon  the  most  perfect  model,  and 
Lady  Emily  had  fully  answered  her  expectations,  but 
partly  from  the  natural  vivacity  of  her  disposition,  and 
partly  from  her  having  married  a  sporting  baronet,  she 
had  become  a  trifle  corrupted ;  so  that  her  manners,  be- 
side her  more  sedate  mother,  appeared  almost  brusque 
and  jovial.  She,  however,  had  vast  reverence  for  her 
mother,  and  for  her  mother's  system.  And  so  Laura  had 
been  brought  up,  not  so  much  by  her  mother  as  by  her 
grandmother,  in  the  very  straightest  mode  of  Queen  Char- 
lottism. 

And  she  had  taken  to  the  style  of  thing  kindly  enough. 
As  a  child  she  was  too  slow  and  dreamy,  too  "  good,"  as 
her  grandmother  would  have  said,  to  make  any  flat  rebel- 
lion, and  as  she  grew  up,  her  grandmother,  as  having  more 
talent,  attracted  her  perhaps  more  than  her  mother ;  be- 
sides the  style  of  thing  suited  her.  She  was  idle  and 


Leighton  Court 

dreamy,  and  she  liked  rules  for  life ;  and  such  wells  of 
passion  as  were  in  her  were  as  yet  unruffled  by  any  wind. 
So  it  was  that  her  manner  was  far  more  staid,  and  her 
habits  of  thought  far  narrower  than  those  of  her  mother. 

A  grand,  imperial,  graceful-looking  girl,  with  a  Greek 
face,  bearing  not  much  colour,  and  an  imperial  diadem  of 
dark  black  hair,  dark  as  the  moor  after  a  thunderstorm  ; 
was  there  a  fault  in  her  face  ?  Only  one  ;  the  mouth  was 
rather  large. 


Chapter  IV 

THESE  two  figures  were  so  very  prominent,  as  being 
perhaps  the  only  two  things  visible  in  the  landscape  I  have 
in  my  mind's  eye,  that  I  could  see  nothing,  or  make  you 
see  nothing,  till  they  were  disposed  of.  We  will  soon 
have  done  with  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  at  which  the 
reader  will  possibly  rejoice. 

Leighton  Court  was  what  is  generally  called  Tudor,  of 
a  sort ;  stone-built,  mullions  and  transoms  of  granite. 
Length  105  ft.,  depth  52  ft.  It  was  very  like  Baliol,  un- 
commonly like  Oriel,  and  a  perfect  replicat  of  University. 
It  stood  near  the  extreme  end  of  a  promontory  of  the  red 
country,  some  400  acres  in  extent,  and  say  100  ft.  in  ex- 
treme height,  densely  wooded,  down  to  the  very  shore  : 
which  divided  the  little  estuary  of  the  Wysclith  from  the 
larger  estuary  of  the  Avon. 

An  old  Tudor  house,  say,  standing  on  a  promontory  of 
red  rock,  feathered  with  deep  green  woods,  whose  base 
lost  itself  in  an  ocean  of  wide-spreading  sea  sand.  As 
you  looked  towards  the  sea  from  the  hill  landward  of  the 
house,  you  saw  narrow  sandy  Wysclith  on  your  right, 
broad  sandy  Avon  on  your  left ;  the  house  deep  bosomed 
in  feathering  woods,  which  ran  down  and  fringed  the 
sands,  in  front,  and  beyond  sands  and  sands  bounded  by 
the  blue  Channel  with  toiling  ships. 


Leighton  Court 

Wysclith,  on  your  right,  made  but  a  small  estuary, 
hardly  could  carry  the  tide  a  mile  above  the  house,  for  he 
had  to  make  the  sea  between  the  rib  of  sandstone  on 
which  Leighton  Court  stood,  and  another  higher  rib,  three 
hundred  yards  to  the  westward,  on  the  summit  to  which 
stood  the  great  Norman  keep  of  Morecombe  Castle,  which, 
at  the  equinoxes,  threw  its  long  shadow  across  the  narrow 
tideway,  and  in  March  and  September,  at  sunset,  lay  the 
shade  of  its  tallest  battlements  on  the  smooth  shorn  turf 
of  Leighton  Court  pleasance.  At  those  two  periods  of 
the  year  when  the  sun  was  due  west,  and  began  to  darken 
towards  his  setting,  the  tower  of  the  keep  of  Morecombe 
seemed  to  hang  minatory  and  darkly  over  its  more  peace- 
ful neighbour  the  hall ;  but  at  all  other  times  the  castle 
was  a  thing  of  beauty  for  the  inhabitants  of  the  Court. 
At  morn  it  rose  a  column  of  grey,  tinged  with  faint 
orange  ;  at  noon  pure  pearl  grey  with  purplish  shadows  ; 
in  the  evening  dark  leaden  colour,  with  the  blaze  of  the 
sunset  behind  it,  and  its  shadow  barring  the  narrow  river, 
and  creeping  towards  the  feet  of  those  who  sat  on  the  ter- 
race of  the  Court. 

The  river  just  began  to  narrow  in  opposite  Leighton 
Court  and  Morecombe  Castle,  and  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
up,  left  creeping  among  sandbars  and  took  to  chafing 
among  vast  shingle  beds.  There  is  no  town  on  the  river, 
only  the  big  red  village  of  South  Wyston  round  a  turn  in 
the  river.  So  you  looked  up  a  reach  in  the  river,  feathered 
with  wood  and  ribbed  with  reddish  purple  rocks,  up  to  the 
cornfields,  wooded  hedgerows  and  woodlands  of  the  red 
country,  and  above  and  beyond  at  the  blue  brown  moor, 
with  young  Wysclith  raving  down  in  a  hundred  cascades 
through  a  rift  in  the  granite. 


ii 


Leighton  Court 


Chapter  V 

PROFOUND  as  was  Sir  Charles'  respect  for  his  wife,  and 
his  reverence  for  his  mother-in-law,  there  was  one  point 
in  Laura's  education  on  which,  once  for  all,  he  had  so 
coolly  and  calmly  opposed  them,  that  they,  like  sensible 
women,  knew  he  was  in  earnest,  and  gave  up  the  contest 
there  and  then. 

Laura  was  to  learn  to  ride ;  nay,  oh  Shade  of  Hannah 
More  !  to  hunt.  He  was  so  very  distinct  about  this,  the 
first  point  on  which  he  had  ever  opposed  them,  that  they 
— knowing  that  although  he  was  so  easy  going  to  them, 
yet  had  among  men  the  character  of  being  a  resolute, 
valiant  man — gave  away  at  once,  and  did  not  even  openly 
protest. 

Laura  was  strong  and  healthy,  and  got  very  fond  indeed 
of  the  sport.  One  need  hardly  say  that  under  Sir  Charles' 
tuition  she  turned  out  a  first-rate  horsewoman.  The 
country  was  a  difficult,  nay  dangerous  country,  but  then, 
with  its  continually  recurring  copses,  it  was  a  very  slow 
country,  by  no  means  a  bad  country  for  a  lady  who  knew 
every  gap,  low  stile,  and  gate,  for  ten  miles  round  ;  a  bet- 
ter country,  for  a  lady,  perhaps,  than  faster  countries 
nearer  London,  certainly  easier  than  Leicestershire. 

So  she  got  very  fond  of  the  sport,  and  if  the  pace  got 
too  great  for  her,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  her  riding 
home  alone.  Mr.  Sponge,  not  to  mention  Mr.  Jorrocks, 
don't  make  hunting  tours  in  the  West.  There  were  no 
strangers  for  her  to  meet,  except  perhaps  an  officer  or  so 
from  Plymouth.  And  very  few  officers  were  at  Plymouth 
many  weeks  without  making  her  father's  acquaintance,  so 
that  of  real  strangers  there  were  none.  She  very  much 
enjoyed  the  times  when  she  got  thrown  out  among  the 
stone-walls,  and  had  to  ride  home  alone  through  the  deep 
lanes,  dreaming. 


Leighton  Court 

Dreaming!  What  could  she  do  but  dream?  When 
she  sat  on  her  horse  alone,  on  the  hill  which  lay  half-way 
between  the  sea  and  the  moor,  she  looked  round  on  the 
widest  horizon  she  had  ever  seen.  She  had  heard  of  a 
great  world  which  roared  and  whirled  beyond  that  hori- 
zon ;  but  she  had  never  seen  it,  or  seen  a  glimpse  of  it 
with  her  own  eyes.  She  heard  her  grandmother  and  her 
mother  talking  of  this  world ;  she  had  been  expressly 
trained,  carefully  trained,  for  moving  in  this  world.  She 
could  have  gone,  with  her  training  and  her  nerve,  into  the 
best  drawing-room  in  London,  or  more,  in  Paris,  and 
have  found  herself  perfectly  at  home.  Lady  Southmolton 
confessed  that  she  was  perfectly  formed  ;  but  meanwhile 
they  could  not  go  to  London  this  year,  and  then  they 
couldn't  go  next  year.  Sir  Charles  was  hard  to  move, 
and  the  hounds  had  cost  a  deal  of  money — a  great  deal  too 
much  money,  indeed. 

So  she  heard  of  the  world  only  from  without.  She 
heard  her  grandmother  and  her  mother  talking  of  the  great 
governors  of  the  country,  and  the  great  givers  of  parties, 
which  were  reported  in  the  Times,  most  familiarly  ;  heard 
a  great  Liberal  nobleman  talked  of  as  "  dear  Henry,"  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  if  dear  Henry  had  taken  her 
grandmother's  advice,  things  would  not  have  come  to  the 
present  dead-lock.  She  heard  these  two  women  continu- 
ally living  in  the  past  among  the  great  men  they  had 
danced  with,  growing  more  familiar  in  the  mention  of 
their  names  as  time  went  on,  expanding  and  developing 
their  legends  and  recollections  about  these  people,  and  egg- 
ing one  another  on  until  a  doubtful  recollection  became  an 
article  of  faith,  and  a  third-hand  story  became  a  personal 
experience.  She  heard  all  this,  and  possibly  laughed  at  it. 
But  she  knew  well  that  her  mother  had  known  the  War 
God,  and  sometimes  she  thought  it  rather  tiresome  that 
she  could  not  know  him  also. 

She  heard  of  the  world,  too,  a  very  different  world 
from  the  soldiers  and  sailors  who  came  over  to  them  from 

13 


Leighton  Court 

Plymouth.  Her  mother  startled  her  one  night  by  telling 
her,  that  of  all  the  sailors  and  soldiers  she  had  ever  enter- 
tained for  the  space  of  twenty  years,  Captain  Fitzgorman 
was  the  only  one  who  had  ever  thoroughly  known  the 
great  world.  She  was  startled,  for  she  had  set  him  down 
as  the  dullest  and  most  unmitigated  noodle  she  had  ever 
had  inflicted  on  her ;  a  man  who  could  talk  about  lords 
and  ladies,  their  marryings  and  intermarryings,  and 
nothing  else.  She  had  asked  her  mother  not  to  ask  him 
again. 

"  My  dear,  he  knows  the  world  ! " 

"  He  knows  the  peerage,"  said  Laura  peevishly  ;  "  and 
I  don't  want  to  have  the  peerage  talked  to  me.  If  I  want 
to  know  anything  out  of  the  peerage,  I  get  it  down  and 
refer  to  it.  He  seems  to  have  got  it  up.  I  listened  to 
him,  and  you,  and  grandma  to-night,  until  I  was  sick.  The 
whole  conversation  amounted  to  a  competitive  examina- 
tion on  those  sort  of  people.  And  while  we  are  on  the 
subject,  allow  me  to  tell  you,  having  listened  through  cu- 
riosity, that  you  got  considerably  the  worst  of  it.  That 
noodle  was  better  up  in  that  particular  kind  of  talk  than 
the  pair  of  you  put  together." 

Jovial  Lady  Emily  had  to  stand  on  her  dignity. 

"  Because  I  withdrew  myself  from  the  world  when  I 
married  your  dear  father,  I  cannot  see  that  it  is  becoming 
for  my  daughter  to  cast  in  my  teeth  my  forgetfulness  of 
the  world." 

Though  her  grammar  was  involved,  as  it  always  was 
when  she  tried  to  be  grand,  Laura  did  not  laugh  at  it. 
She  only  said  good-humouredly — 

"  Well,  mother,  I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me 
ridiculous  for  a  younger  son  to  talk  about  nothing  but  his 
own  and  other  people's  connections." 

She  had  a  sharper  arrow  in  her  quiver  than  that  for 
young  "  Fitz  ;  "  but  who  could  snarl  or  say  a  bitter  thing 
in  the  presence  of  her  genial  mother,  who  kissed  her, 
called  her  a  radical,  and  went  to  bed. 


Leighton  Court 

Laura,  you  see,  did  not  believe  in  the  grand  monde. 
She  believed  that  the  real  great  world  was  the  wide  world 
the  sailors  and  soldiers  told  her  of.  West  Coast  of  Africa, 
India,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  which  the  reader  may 
supplement,  out  of  the  history  of  these  wonderful  thirty 
millions  of  islanders  who  have  seized  on  the  strongest  and 
richest  parts  of  the  world,  according  to  his  fancy.  But 
this  world  was  as  much  shut  out  to  her  as  the  London 
world,  and  she  was  thrown  on  to  her  own,  a  very  small 
one,  more  the  pity. 

The  peasantry  were  all  her  world.  Poor  visiting  had 
always  been  one  of  the  rules  of  the  family,  and  Laura 
took  to  it  not  unkindly.  She  got  to  love  the  people,  she 
understood  their  wants,  she  excused  their  faults,  and  got 
more  deeply,  than  she  was  aware,  imbued  with  their 
superstitions. 


Chapter  VI 

LORD  HATTERLEIGH  was  a  young  man  of  great  prom- 
ise, aged  twenty-two,  who  wore  goloshes,  carried  a  bulgy 
umbrella,  and  took  dinner  pills. 

Generally  he  took  them  in  the  hall,  getting  a  confidential 
glass  of  water  from  the  butler.  But  if  he  had  been  some- 
what late,  and  had  forgot  them,  he  would  have  no  hesita- 
tion in  taking  them  after  his  soup,  or  even  after  his  fish, 
before  an  admiring  dinner-table.  Lord  Hatterleigh's  in- 
side was  the  most  wonderful  inside  ever  known.  It  was 
a  complicated  and  delicate  piece  of  machinery,  which  re- 
quired continual  oiling.  He  was  exceedingly  proud  of  it. 
Two  or  three  doctors  had  set  it  right  for  him,  but  he 
found  himself  somewhat  lost  if  it  was  not  out  of  order. 
A  subject  of  conversation  was  lost  to  him.  He  could  talk 
peerage  by  the  yard ;  he  could  pipe  out  feeble  wishy- 
washy  politics  by  the  hour  ;  but  to  the  dearest  friends  of 
his  heart  he  always  led  the  conversation  to  his  inside. 

15 


Leighton  Court 

It  was  a  great  joke  in  the  county  for  some  time,  that 
Lord  Hatterleigh  had  appointed  Sam  Bolton  his  chaplain, 
because  Bolton  had  a  complication  in  his  liver  or  some- 
where, nearly  as  fine  as  the  hitch  in  Lord  Hatterleigh 's 
"  ilia."  It  was  notorious,  and  what  is  very  different,  per- 
fectly true,  that  he  was  very  fond  of  Samuel  Bolton,  and 
that  they  would  sit  up  half  the  night  comparing  their 
symptoms.  Sam  Bolton  was  the  most  intimate  friend  he 
had,  and  it  was  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  one's  face,  that  as 
soon  as  the  present  rector  dropped,  Lord  Hatterleigh 
would  give  him  the  living  of  Hatterleigh  to  keep  him  near 
him.  Sam  Bolton  got  engaged  on  the  strength  of  it.  The 
Rector  himself,  a  lean  old  gentleman,  a  bishop's  man, 
who  preached  in  his  surplice,  turned  to  the  east  at  the 
Creed,  and  in  spite  of  it  kept  his  church  full,  recognised 
him  as  his  successor. 

"  When  I  am  gone,  my  dear  Mr.  Bolton,"  he  would 
say,  "  you  will  find  that  the  dilapidation  money  will  hardly 
make  the  house  fit  for  a  family  man.  You  are  going  to 
marry,  and  you  will  have  to  build,  sir,  you  will  have  to 
build." 

The  Rector  "  dropped  "  suddenly,  through  attending  a 
typhus  case  on  a  fast  day  without  a  good  dinner  and  a 
glass  of  port,  but  Sam  Bolton  never  was  Rector  of  Hatter- 
leigh. Lord  Hatterleigh  wrote  off  to  Dr.  Arnold  to  send 
him  the  best  available  parson  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 
Dr.  Arnold  did  so,  and  the  Rector  of  Hatterleigh  was  not 
Sam  Bolton. 

Sam  Bolton  sulked,  and  at  last  one  evening  grew  pa- 
thetic, nay,  got  near  to  a  state  of  injured  indignation. 

"  I  never  promised  you  the  living,  Bolton,"  said  his  lord- 
ship, nursing  his  big  knee.  "  I  like  you  very  much,  but  I 
don't  think  you  are  fit  for  it.  Besides,  your  digestion,  my 
dear  fellow,  your  digestion  ! " 

A  high-minded  man  enough,  this  Lord  Hatterleigh,  al- 
ways putting  before  him,  according  to  his  light,  a  lofty 
ideal,  and  fighting  up  to  it  with  the  obstinacy  of  a  mule 

16 


Leighton  Court 

and  the  cunning  of  a  fox.  The  world  called  him  false  and 
untrustworthy,  but  if  you  catechised  the  world,  you  would 
find  that  he  had  never  departed  from  his  pledged  word, 
and  had  never  disappointed  hopes  which  he  himself  had 
given. 

He  had  tried  Rugby,  but  his  health  wouldn't  stand  it  (so 
said  he  and  his  grandmother).  He  had  gone  to  a  great 
private  tutor's  and  had  read  continuously  and  diligently  (as 
for  reading  hard,  it  was  not  in  the  man)  and  in  due  time 
had  made  his  appearance  in  Peckwater.  Here  he  was 
recognised  at  once  as  a  young  man  of  great  promise.  He 
could,  give  him  a  bottle  of  water,  talk  you  washy  politics 
by  the  yard,  by  the  hour.  But  the  union,  most  patient  of 
assemblies,  very  soon  got  impatient  of  him,  and  certain 
square-headed,  bright-eyed,  young  rascals  from  Balliol  and 
University  began  to  make  terrible  mince-meat  of  him. 
Still  he  was  a  young  nobleman  of  promise. 

Of  great  promise  but  of  little  performance ;  he  was  so 
very  steady  and  studious  that  outsiders  put  him  down  for 
all  sorts  of  degrees,  treble  first,  said  some,  for  he  had  sent 
a  gigantic  order  to  Shrimpton  for  chemical  and  geological 
books,  and  was  evidently  going  in  to  win.  But  after 
dandering  about  the  University  for  three  years,  he  got  a 
bad  fourth  in  classics  and  merely  passed  in  the  other  schools. 
After  which,  he  transferred  himself  and  his  talents  to  his 
paternal  acres  and  the  House  of  Lords.  On  his  own  estates 
he  did  his  duty  manfully  and  well.  In  the  House  of  Lords 
he  spoke  on  the  Address  and  none  afterwards.  He  found 
he  was  out  of  his  depth,  and  had  the  sense  to  float  with- 
out trying  to  swim.  Most  likely  his  failure  at  Oxford  had 
done  him  good.  There  he  had  been  measured  with  a 
moiety  of  the  talent  of  the  country,  and  had  failed.  I  think 
that  in  his  way  he  understood  this. 

But  with  perfect  good  temper.  If  he  was  sly,  it  was  only 
through  a  kind  of  half  physical,  half  nervous  cowardice. 
There  was  none  of  the  cat-like  bitterness  of  the  real  coward 
about  him.  He  hated  a  scene  beyond  all  things,  but  he 

17 


Leighton  Court 

would  face  a  scene,  and  go  through  with  it  to  the  end  if 
one  of  his  principles  was  at  stake,  and  win.  Temper !  his 
temper  was  angelic,  so  long  as  he  had  not  lost  his  um- 
brella, mislaid  his  goloshes,  or  forgot  his  dinner  pills  ;  and 
then  his  temper  only  showed  itself  in  a  kind  of  plaintive 
peevishness.  When  any  one  of  these  three  things  hap- 
pened, Laura  could  always  bring  him  into  good  temper 
again.  The  rules  of  society  prevented  her  talking  over  his 
complaints  with  him,  but  she  could  talk  genealogies  and 
marriages  with  so  many  mistakes  as  to  rouse  him  into  ani- 
mation to  set  her  right,  and  she  was  fond  of  the  poor 
creature.  She  was  very  tender  to  the  village  idiot,  too, 
and  had  prevented  the  boys  from  bullying  him  into  mad- 
ness many  times.  Lord  Hatterleigh  had  seen  her  but  from 
childhood,  and  Laura  had  never  cared  to  look  for  such  finer 
qualities  as  there  might  be  in  him.  They  used  to  call  him 
Ursa  Major. 


Chapter  VII 

THE  little  affair  of  Assewal  scarcely  deserves  to  be  called 
a  battle,  it  was  merely  a  prelude ;  nay,  not  even  that,  only 
a  tuning  of  fiddles  for  the  "  Grand  Devil's  Opera,"  which 
crashed  and  roared  so  late  into  the  next  day  that  the  last 
mutter  of  it  was  heard  as  the  sinking  sun  flamed  upon  the 
Eastern  ghaut ;  and  night,  and  silence,  only  half-broken 
by  the  low  wails  and  moans  of  the  wounded,  settled  down 
upon  another  great  field,  whose  name  henceforth  is  one  of 
the  landmarks  of  history. 

Yet  a  remarkable  thing  happened  there.  The  advance- 
guard  of  the  enemy,  as  well  as  one  can  understand,  were 
in  a  strongish  position,  on  the  other  side  of  a  nullah,  and 
were  keeping  up  an  infernal  fire  of  artillery  at  a  native  reg- 
iment of  ours,  which  was  only  half  sheltered  by  a  roll  in 
the  ground.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  this  regi- 
ment should  stay  in  its  present  position,  for  it  was  the  ex- 

18 


Lefghton  Court 

treme  of  our  left  flank  in  that  little  affair,  and  our  general 
was  engaged  in  turning  their  left  flank,  and  forcing  them 
into  that  disadvantageous  position  in  which  they  gave  us 
battle  the  next  day,  and  got  so  terribly  beaten. 

Sir  Charles  had  deputed  the  work  to  be  done  on  his  right 
to  three  or  four  men  whose  names  have  since  been  burnt 
deep  into  the  memories  of  their  countrymen,  and  therefore 
he  knew  that  the  work  on  the  right  was  being  as  efficiently 
done  as  if  he  had  been  there  himself. 

It  was  necessary,  however,  for  the  Eagle's  eye  to  watch 
this  left  flank,  which  was  our  weakest  place.  And  so  the 
Eagle  was  there  with  his  great  hooked  beak  stretched  tow- 
ards the  enemy,  from  time  to  time  shaking  out  his  ruffled 
feathers  ready  to  swoop  and  strike. 

As  he  was.  The  i4Oth  Dragoons  were  behind  the  tope 
in  which  he  stood ;  and  if  the  Sikh  artillery  did  not  soon 
feel  the  pressure  which  he  was  putting  on  their  left,  it 
would  become  necessary  to  hurl  our  cavalry  at  this  artillery, 
and  silence  it  with  the  loss  of  half  of  one  of  our  best  regi- 
ments. 

No  one  could  doubt  that.  The  plain  —  more  correctly 
the  glacis — which  lay  between  the  Sikh  artillery  and  the 
half-concealed  native  regiment  in  the  lower  ground,  was 
being  ripped  and  torn  and  riven  by  their  furious  cannon- 
ade. Life,  even  for  a  single  individual,  seemed  to  be  im- 
possible there.  What  would  be  the  fate  of  seven  hundred 
close-packed  horsemen — Thermopylae  or  Balaclava  ? 

Some  of  the  shot  were  reaching  the  native  regiment,  and 
they  were  getting  fidgety.  If  they  could  be  kept  there 
until  the  pressure  on  the  enemy's  left  was  felt?  If  the 
sacrifice  of  the  I4oth  could  be  saved  ?  But  a  good  many 
shot  had  come  ripping  in  on  the  flank  companies,  which 
were  exposed  on  each  side  of  the  roll  in  the  ground,  and 
they  were  getting  unsteady. 

"  Go  and  tell  him  to  draw  his  flank  companies  behind 
the  ridge,"  he  said,  and  turning  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  a  cornet  of  the  i4Oth,  a  handsome  pensive-looking 

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boy,  who  by  some  accident  had  been  sent  up  to  him  with 
a  message. 

The  boy,  a  scarlet-and-gold  thing,  all  over  golden  frip- 
peries and  tags  and  bobtails,  topped  with  a  white  pith  hel- 
met, a  very  beautiful  and  expensive  article  (receiving  one- 
third  the  pay  of  a  Staffordshire  iron-puddler),  went  jingling 
down  the  hill  and  passed  behind  the  native  regiment  till 
he  came  to  the  Colonel.  They  saw  him  deliver  his  mes- 
sage, and  thought  he  was  coming  back  again. 

So  he  was,  but  by  a  very  queer  route.  He  rode  past  the 
left  flank  of  the  wavering  regiment,  and  then,  mounting 
the  hill,  turned,  and  came  coolly  jingling  back  at  a  sling 
trot  over  that  terrible  plain  slope,  which  was  being  ripped 
and  torn  and  sent  into  the  air  in  all  directions  by  the  ene- 
my's shot,  and  on  which  human  life  appeared  impossible. 
Fountains  and  showers  of  stones  and  sand  were  rising  and 
falling  all  around  him  as  he  rode,  but  he  came  coolly 
clanking  on,  and  while  the  staff  were  expecting  to  see  him 
cut  in  two  every  instant,  he  managed  to  knock  his  helmet  off. 

He  stopped,  dismounted,  picked  it  up,  put  it  on  hindside 
before,  altered  it,  and  prepared  to  mount.  His  horse  was 
restive,  and  he  gave  it  a  good-natured  little  kick  in  the 
ribs,  got  on  again,  and  came  jangling  slowly  up  to  the  tope 
where  the  Eagle  was  posted.  The  Eagle  never  liked  that 
sort  of  thing.  He  was  very  angry  ;  he  shook  his  feathers 
and  opened  on  him. 

"  Are  you  a  Frenchman,  sir,  that  you  play  these  Tom- 
fool's games  under  fire?  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  your 
life  is  your  country's,  sir,  and  that  death  is  a  very  solemn 
thing  ?  Do  you  know,  that  if  it  were  not  for  an  extraordi- 
nary instance  of  God's  mercy,  you  would  be  lying  howling 
and  dying  in  the  grass  yonder  ?  What  did  you  do  it  for  ; 
eh,  sir  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  at  him  with  his  great  melancholy  eyes, 
and  said — 

"  The  84th  seemed  getting  unsteady,  sir ;  and  I  thought 
I  would  show  them  that  it  was  not  so  bad  as  it  looked." 

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"  Hem !  that  is  another  matter.  That  is  a  different 
affair  altogether.  You  have  acted  with  great  valour  and 
discretion  ;  you  have  done  a  noble  deed  at  the  right  time. 
Such  actions  as  yours,  sir,  elevate  the  tone  of  the  army, 
and  deserve  to  live  in  the  mouths  of  men  for  ever.  What 
is  your  name  ?  " 

"  George  Hilton." 

"  He  is  Jack's  boy,"  said  a  general  who  stood  near. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  have  said  so  before  ?  "  snapped  out 
the  Eagle. 

"  Because  I  didn't  want  to  spoil  the  fun  of  hearing  you 
make  a  set  complimentary  speech  to  Jack's  boy.  Fancy 
such  a  torrent  of  fervid  eloquence  being  poured  out  on  his 
head.  It's  as  good  as  a  play." 

The  great  warrior  was  very  much  amused,  and  held  out 
his  hand  to  the  lad. 

"  You  are  at  your  father's  tricks,  are  you,  you  monkey  ? 
Go  back  to  your  regiment.  I  shall  write  to  your  mother." 

And  so  he  did,  and  kept  his  eye  on  the  boy.  Young 
George  Hilton  soon  changed  into  an  infantry  regiment, 
partly  because  his  mother  had  lost  some  money,  and 
partly  because  his  patron  and  his  father's  friend  wished  it. 
In  time  his  patron  died ;  but  he  fought  his  way  steadily 
on  through  the  weary  nights  of  1854,  through  the  dark 
and  terrible  hour  of  1855,  leaving  his  mark  on  everything 
he  undertook,  and  getting  his  name  well  known,  not  only 
at  the  Horse  Guards,  but  to  the  most  careless  of  the  gen- 
eral public.  Here  we  find  him  now  on  the  terrace  beside 
Laura.  Colonel  Hilton,  C.B.,  v.c.,  a  tall  man  of  remarka- 
ble personal  beauty,  with  a  dark-brown  beard,  and  large 
melancholy  eyes ;  and  with  a  low-pitched,  but  singularly 
distinct  voice.  A  dangerous  man  for  any  girl  to  listen  to, 
among  the  lengthening  summer  twilight  shadows,  particu- 
larly after  having  had  Lord  Hatterleigh  gobbling  and 
spluttering  out  insane  political  twaddle  the  whole  evening. 


21 


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Chapter  VIII 

"  AND  how  do  you  like  Cain,  my  love  ?  "  said  Lady 
Emily,  sweeping  in  full-dressed  into  Sir  Charles'  dressing- 
room,  just  as  he  was  tying  his  cravat  for  dinner. 

"  Cain,  my  dear?  " 

"  The  new  young  man." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  Cain  ?  " 

"  Because  he  must  have  murdered  his  brother,  or 
something  as  bad,  to  get  such  a  good  recommendation. 
Don't  you  see,  you  foolish  old  man,  that  if  what  Sir 
George  Herage  says  about  him  is  in  any  way  true,  he 
would  sooner  have  pulled  out  his  few  remaining  teeth 
than  part  with  him  ?  I  hope  we  shan't  have  our  throats 
cut." 

"  I  thought  you  called  yourself  a  Christian,"  growled 
Sir  Charles. 

"  I  was  under  the  same  impression  myself,"  laughed 
Lady  Emily. 

"  Then  why  do  you  go  on  comparing  an  innocent  young 
man  to  Judas  Iscariot  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  compare  him  to  Judas  Iscariot.  I  compared 
him  to  Cain." 

"If  Cain  was  such  a  splendid-looking  fellow  as  he  is,  he 
was  a  remarkable  man." 

"  Oh  !  is  he  so  very  grand  ?     Does  he  talk  well  ?  " 

"  He  talks  very  little,  and  seems  a  little  surly." 

"  Can  he  ride  ?  " 

"  Don't  ask  me.  I  have  nearly  broken  my  neck  looking 
after  him.  Absolutely  superb  !  " 

"  Tell  me  some  more  about  him." 

"  What  makes  you  so  eager  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind  ;  are  his  manners  good  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  should  say  so.  He  is  perfectly  Tom  Squire's 
master,  by-the-bye.  The  fellow's  London  assurance  has 

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completely  quelled  the  old  man ;  he  takes  orders  from  his 
subordinate  which  he  could  never  take  from  me." 

"  Now,"  said  Lady  Emily,  "  conies  my  turn.  Suppose  I 
was  to  tell  you  that  I  had  found  out  all  about  him  and  re- 
fused to  tell  you." 

"  You  know  you  couldn't  keep  it  to  yourself.  I  should 
hear  all  about  it  if  I  waited.  Better  tell  it  at  once." 

"  I  suppose  I  had.  By-the-bye,  this  young  gentleman's 
name  will  be  George." 

"  It  is  so.     How  did  you  guess  ?  " 

"  My  love,  I  know  all  about  everything.  My  sister  has 
found  it  all  out.  You  know  that  Sir  William  Poyntz  had 
two  sons,  Harry  and  Bob  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  third,  an  illegitimate  one  ?  " 

"  I  know  there  was  such  a  son.  The  old  man's  favour- 
ite. Well  ?  " 

"  This  is  the  man." 

"  No !     Is  it,  really  ?    That  is  very  strange." 

"  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  has  been  in  the  neighbourhood  and 
has  told  my  sister  everything.  This  George  has  been  a 
sadly  dissipated  fellow." 

"  That  is  one  of  Harry's  lies.  The  fellow's  eye  is  as 
clear  as  mine,"  intercalated  Sir  Charles. 

"  Well,  that  is  Sir  Harry's  account  of  the  matter — very 
dissipated.  He,  it  seemed,  got  hold  of  Robert  Poyntz,  now 
in  India,  and  led  him  into  all  kinds  of  dissipation.  All 
this  brought  on  a  serious  misunderstanding  between  Sir 
Harry  and  his  brother,  and  led  to  this  George  Hammers- 
ley  being  utterly  ignored  by  Sir  Harry,  and  sent  to  live  on 
his  wits.  And  that  is  your  Adonis." 

"  The  best  thing  about  our  Adonis  seems  to  be  his  good 
looks  and  good  manners,  and  the  fact  that  Harry  Poyntz 
has  taken  away  his  character." 

"  The  last  item  is  the  most  important,"  said  Lady  Em- 
ily. "  I  never  knew  Harry  Poyntz  tell  the  truth  yet ;  did 
you  ?  " 

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"  Not  I.  But  Poyntz  is  coming  here  soon ;  in  six  months, 
I  believe.  He  refuses  to  renew  Huxtable's  lease.  What 
will  Adonis  do  then  ?  " 

"  That  is  distinctly  his  business,"  said  Lady  Emily. 
"  We  shall  see." 

"  I  wonder  why  he  left  Leicestershire,  this  paragon," 
said  Sir  Charles,  just  as  they  got  to  the  drawing-room 
door. 

"  He  admired,  or  was  admired  too  much  by  one  of  the 
Herage  girls.  Don't  say  a  word  about  that,  it  is  not  fair. 
Laura  will  take  uncommon  good  care  that  he  don't  make 
love  to  her." 


Chapter  IX 

"  AND  who  is  going  to  make  love  to  our  Laura  ?  "  said 
a  little  voice,  very  like  a  tiny  chime  of  silver  bells  from  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  as  they  entered. 

There  sat,  all  alone,  a  little  old  lady  with  a  white  lace 
cap  on  her  head,  and  a  white  lace  shawl  over  her  shoul- 
ders. She  wore  her  own  grey  hair,  and  her  complexion 
was  nearly  as  delicate  now  as  in  her  youth,  but  slightly 
paler,  and  covered  with  tiny  wrinkles,  only  visible  when 
one  was  quite  close  to  her.  A  most  wonderfully  beautiful 
old  lady  (how  beautiful  old  women  can  be),  with  a  cheer- 
ful peaceful  light  in  her  face,  which  made  one  love  her  at 
once:  and  yet  with  a  look  of  complacent,  self-possessed, 
self-conscious  goodness,  too,  which,  after  a  time  became 
provoking,  and  which  tempted  outsiders  and  sinners  to 
contradict  her,  and  to  broach  heretical  opinions  for  the 
mere  sake  of  aggravation. 

"  And  who  is  going  to  make  love  to  our  Laura  ?  "  she 
repeated. 

Lady  Emily  would  have  done  a  great  deal  sooner  than 
have  repeated  before  her  mother  the  audacious  joke  she 
had  just  made  with  her  husband  ;  the  old  lady  would  have 

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been  too  painfully  shocked  at  it ;  she  turned  it  off  by  a  lit- 
tle fib. 

"  Oh,  you  can  guess  whom  I  mean,  mamma.  I  hate 
mentioning  names." 

"  Poor  Ursa  Major  is  terribly  smitten,  I  fancy,"  said  the 
old  lady,  smiling.  "  I  am  fond  of  Ursa  Major.  He  comes 
of  a  good  stock.  All  the  Hortons  are  good.  He  will 
make  the  woman  he  marries  very  happy  if  she  will  only  let 
him." 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  good  match  for  any  woman,"  said  Lady 
Emily,  seizing  her  opportunity  with  admirable  quickness, 
and  speaking  in  a  free  off-hand  way,  as  though  it  was  a 
mere  abstract  question.  "  He  has  sixty  thousand  a-year. 
He  is  very  amiable  and  talented,  and  young.  That  is  a 
great  point.  He  is  not  beyond  forming,  and  Laura  would 
form  him." 

"  Laura !  "  shouted  Sir  Charles. 

"  My  love,  we  are  not  deaf,"  said  Lady  Emily,  with  lofty 
quietness. 

These  two  good  ladies  never  told  Sir  Charles  anything 
important,  they  always  broke  it  to  him,  administered  it  in 
gentle  doses,  as  beef  tea  is  given  to  starving  persons  ;  some- 
times driving  him  half  wild  in  the  process.  This  seemed 
a  fair  occasion,  though  an  accidental  one,  of  "  breaking  " 
to  Sir  Charles  the  fact  that  Lord  Hatterleigh  was  most  un- 
doubtedly smitten  with  Laura.  They  were  considerably 
anxious,  and  had  reason  to  be.  But  they  did  not  show  it. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "  but  you  gave  me 
such  a  start." 

"  I  merely  said,"  remarked  Lady  Emily,  shutting  her 
eyes,  pulling  the  string,  and  letting  off  the  cannon,  bang ! 
— "  that  in  case  Laura  married  him,  the  excellent  training 
she  had  received  from  her  grandmother  would " 

"  Laura  marry  him,  that  Guy  Fawkes  booby  !  What 
monstrous  rubbish  is  this '" 

"  Would  polish  him,  remove  any  little  uncouthness,  and 
so  on,"  continued  Lady  Emily,  with  steady  severity. 


Leighton  Court 

"  She's  a  clever  girl,"  cried  Sir  Charles,  "  but  she  will 
never  make  him  anything  but  what  he  is,  an  awkward  lop- 
sided gaby,  the  butt  of  every  club  he  belongs  to.  Besides, 
the  man  is  not  a  marrying  man.  There  is  something 
wrong  with  him.  He  keeps  a  doctor ;  and  he  has  not  had 
a  proper  education  ;  he  can't  ride  or  shoot.  He  couldn't 
ride  about  with  her.  It  would  never  do — shall  never  be. 
How  could  you  dare  to  think  of  such  a  monstrous  arrange- 
ment, Emily  ?  But  Laura  can  take  care  of  herself,  that 
is  one  comfort.  There  he  comes  himself,  by  all  that's 
awkward !  " 

Somebody  was  heard  lumbering  downstairs  and  objur- 
gating somebody  else,  in  a  voice  compounded  of  a  gobble 
and  a  growl.  Some  one  slipped  down  the  last  two  stairs. 
That  it  was  the  owner  of  the  gorilla  voice  was  evident 
from  that  voice  exclaiming  aloud,  "  Bless  my  soul,  I  have 
broken  my  back  !  " 

"  Sweet  youth,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "  I  hope  he  won't 
cry." 

Before  Lord  Hatterleigh  had  finished  a  plaintive  wrangle 
with  his  valet,  as  to  whether  his  slipping  downstairs  was 
his  own  or  the  valet's  fault,  two  other  people  entered  the 
drawing-room  together — Laura  and  Colonel  Hilton  ;  a 
most  splendid  pair  of  people,  indeed  ;  they  had  evidently 
been  saying  something  kindly  wicked  about  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh's  accident,  and  were  both  smiling.  He  was  slightly 
behind  her,  and  being  the  tallest  was  bending  towards 
her ;  she,  saying  the  last  word  of  their  little  joke,  was 
turning  her  beautiful  head  back  to  him,  and  showing  the 
soft  curves  of  her  splendid  throat  as  though  Millais  were 
lying  in  wait  for  her.  They  were  a  wonderfully  beautiful 
pair  of  people,  and  the  three  folks  in  the  drawing-room 
were  obliged  to  confess  it. 

Said  Lady  Southmolton  to  herself :  "  That  would  do, 
perhaps,  under  other  circumstances.  But  he  hasn't  got 
any  fortune,  and  she  don't  care  for  him,  and  never  will. 
He  flatters  her  too  grossly  and  too  openly,  and  she  hates 

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being  flattered  ;  with  all  his  personal  beauty  and  his  gal- 
lantry, she  despises  him.  I  could  tell  him  how  to  win  that 
girl,  but  I  won't.  He  has  neither  birth  nor  money.  That 
young  man  don't  understand  women  of  her  stamp ;  very 
few  soldiers  do." 

Said  Lady  Emily :  "  I  wish  that  could  come  about ;  he 
is  so  handsome  and  so  good.  But  it  can't.  He  has  got 
no  money,  and  what  I  can't  understand  is,  that  she  don't 
like  him.  I  wish  he  had  Hatterleigh's  money,  and  that 
she  would  fall  in  love  with  him."  Two  things  which 
happened  to  be  impossible. 

Said  Sir  Charles  :  "  Sometimes  I  wish  the  hounds  were 
at  the  devil.  If  it  was  not  for  them  I  should  be  before- 
hand with  the  world,  instead  of  getting  behindhand  year 
after  year.  I  wish  this  fellow  had  Hatterleigh's  money. 
But  he  hasn't.  She  is  evidently  in  love  with  this  fellow. 
(Was  she,  Sir  Charles  ?  The  mother  and  grandmother 
did  not  think  so,  and  ladies  are  generally  considered  judges 
of  that  sort  of  thing.)  I  suppose  it  will  end  in  her  marry- 
ing that  booby,  the  women  seem  set  on  it." 

That  was  the  way  with  Sir  Charles  and  with  a  great 
many  others  ;  a  furious  rebellion  against  the  women,  and 
then  a  dull  sulky  acquiescence.  Stronger  men  than  Sir 
Charles  have  been  fairly  beaten  by  female  persistency. 
He  gave  up  the  battle,  however,  the  moment  he  saw  that 
the  enemy  were  going  to  show  fight.  He  hated  the  very 
sound  of  Lord  Hatterleigh's  voice.  He  had  thought,  half 
an  hour  ago,  that  the  sacrifice  of  such  a  being  as  Laura  to 
such  a  booby  as  Lord  Hatterleigh,  was  a  monstrous 
thing ;  but — but  Lord  Hatterleigh  was  rich ;  and  if  Laura, 
noble,  honest  Laura,  could  say  she  loved  him,  what  had 
he  to  say  ?  It  would  be  a  great  match,  and  so  on,  only 
there  lurked  in  his  heart  a  strong  half-formed  desire,  that 
Laura  would  box  his  lordship's  ears,  the  first  moment  he 
ventured  to  speak  to  her. 

"  Aha,  my  young  lady,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  have  no 
doubt  you  would  give  the  hair  off  your  head  to  have  him 

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talk  to  you  in  the  tone  he  does  to  Laura.  But  you  run 
after  him  too  openly,  my  poor  Maria." 

This  remark  arose  from  the  entrance  of  the  Huxtables, 
father  and  daughter.  Mr.  Huxtable  was  a  fine-looking 
North-countryman,  and  his  daughter  Maria  a  very  fine 
specimen  of  a  Lancashire  lass,  by  no  means  unlike  Laura, 
but  coarser.  Sir  Charles,  who  was  standing  close  to  her, 
had  noticed  the  shade  of  vexation  which  passed  over  her 
handsome  face,  when  she  saw  Colonel  Hilton  bending 
over  Laura,  and  made  the  above  remark,  which  he  sup- 
plemented by  another. 

"  What  fools  soldiers  are !  There  is  Hilton  dangling 
about  after  Laura,  who  don't  care  for  him, and  sixty  thou- 
sand pounds  ready  to  drop  into  his  mouth." 

The  great  mighty  master  of  Tomfoolery,  Levassor, 
blundering  on  to  the  stage  with  his  breeches  up  to  his 
ears,  just  as  Rachel  had  drooped  into  one  of  her  sublimest 
attitudes,  could  hardly  have  been  a  greater  foil  to  her  than 
was  Lord  Hatterleigh  to  Colonel  Hilton ;  yet  Laura  left 
the  Colonel  directly,  and  going  to  the  other,  began  kindly 
to  laugh  at  him  about  his  tumbling  downstairs. 

He  was  extremely  flattered  and  pleased  by  her  kindness, 
and  held  himself  as  gallantly  as  he  could.  He  had 
made  his  valet  take  particular  pains  with  his  toilette,  but 
as  the  valet  had  said  to  himself,  it  wasn't  the  fault  of  the 
clothes,  but  of  the  man  inside  them.  He  remained  silent, 
only  smiling  radiantly  until  it  became  time  to  take  Lady 
Emily  in  to  dinner. 

He  sat  next  Laura,  but  his  silence  continued  until  he 
had  finished  his  soup  and  his  fish.  He  did  nothing  but 
smile.  He  had  invented  something  pretty  in  the  retire- 
ment of  his  chamber  which  he  was  to  say  to  Laura,  but  he 
had  forgotten  it,  and  his  soul  was  consumed  in  spasmodic 
efforts  to  remember  it.  Laura  saw  this  to  her  intense 
amusement.  At  the  end  of  the  fish  she  thought  he  had 
got  it,  for  he  brightened  up  and  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
She  was  wrong,  he  had  only  abandoned  the  effort.  He 
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slopped  out  a  glass  of  water,  looked  sweetly  at  her,  and 
said — 

"  I  take  it  that  the  great  duration  of  the  Liverpool  min- 
istry arose  mainly  from  the  absence  of  anything  like  de- 
cision or  force  of  character  in  the  chief.  The  whole,  too, 
was  a  mere  coalition  as  profligate  as  that  between  Fox 
and  North.  The  very  possibility  of  a  coalition  argues  an 
entire  absence  of  principle  in  the  coalescing  parties,  and  of 
policy  in  the  coalition  itself." 


Chapter  X 

HUNTING  was  nearly  the  only  irregular  pursuit  which 
Laura  had,  the  only  one  the  duration  of  which  could  not 
be  calculated.  With  this  single  exception  her  life  was  as 
perfectly  methodical  as  her  grandmother's.  The  system 
on  which  she  had  been  brought  up  consisted  mainly  of 
perfect  regularity  of  time  and  uniformity  of  thought.  This 
hunting  was  an  excentric  incalculable  comet  in  the  regular 
planetary  system  of  her  mother.  It  was  the  only  excep- 
tion ;  the  rest  of  her  life  was  perfectly  regular,  nearly  as 
regular  as  a  religious  sister's. 

A  morning  walk  from  six  to  seven.  Religious  reading 
in  her  own  room  till  half-past.  Breakfast  at  nine.  Poor 
people  from  ten  to  twelve.  Solid  reading  (but  very  few 
novels  admitted  into  the  house)  till  one.  Lunch.  Drive 
out  with  grandma  in  the  afternoon.  Dinner  at  seven. 
Prayers  and  bed  at  half-past  ten. 

So  much  for  a  non-hunting  day  ;  one  of  the  days  after 
her  grandmother's  own  heart.  Idleness,  said  her  grand- 
ma, was  the  source  of  all  temptation  ;  days  spent  like  this 
could  lead  to  no  temptation  (except  that  of  suicide,  per- 
haps ?),  and  therefore  would  help  to  preserve  from  sin. 
But  a  hunting  day  was  a  very  different  sort  of  thing. 
What  must  the  poor  old  lady  have  suffered  on  one  of 

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them,  with  her  well-regulated  mind  lacerated  at  every 
point !  She  had  learnt  to  suffer  and  smile  in  far  more  ter- 
rible affairs  than  this. 

On  those  happy  hunting  days  all  the  old  rules  were  bro- 
ken through.  Waking  from  some  happy  dream  to  the 
consciousness  of  an  existence  still  happier,  Laura  would 
find  herself  in  her  riding  habit,  hat  in  hand,  in  the  dim 
grey  morning  passing  through  the  great  hall  to  the  break- 
fast room  to  meet  her  father.  And  oh,  what  divine  feasts 
were  those  tete-&-tete  breakfasts  with  him,  and  him  alone, 
before  the  roaring  logs.  All  her  nature  seemed  changed 
on  these  occasions.  She  felt  as  some  old  knight  must 
have  felt,  when,  after  being  mewed  up  in  his  castle  for  a 
weary  week  he  found  himself  on  the  road.  She  had  a  day 
of  adventure,  of  unknown  adventure,  before  her.  On 
other  days  she  was  watching  the  clock  to  see  when  it  was 
time  to  leave  off  working  and  begin  reading.  On  these 
there  was  no  rule,  no  law.  Liberty — wild,  mad  liberty  ! 

Then  came  the  ride  with  her  father  in  the  cold  wild 
morning  up  one  of  the  more  secluded  lowland  valleys 
through  ever  rising  lanes,  which  grew  more  steep  until  the 
cottages  grew  scarcer,  and  the  hedges  less  cared  for, 
until  there  were  no  lanes  and  no  hedges,  but  tracks  among 
scattered  oak  and  holly,  and  the  trickling  trout-stream  in 
the  bottom  gleaming  among  his  alders.  And  at  last,  after 
the  stream  had  divided  into  three  or  four  little  channels, 
came  opener  country,  and  rising  above  the  highest  combe, 
the  gentle  roll  called  Whinny  Hill,  a  hundred  acres  of 
gorse,  now  made  brilliant  by  the  redcoats  which  awaited 
their  arrival.  Then  the  summit  with  a  hundred  pleasant 
greetings,  the  moor  in  the  distance,  dark  purple  wreathed 
with  silver  mist. 

And  the  coming  home  at  night,  draggled  and  happily 
tired,  and,  last  of  all,  the  sweet  confused  dreams  of  all  the 
day's  wild  adventures.  What  though  to-morrow  should 
be  a  day  of  dull  routine — there  were  other  hunting  days  to 
come! 

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So  she  had  two  lives,  as  it  would  seem — the  one  of  re- 
spectable not  unpleasant  routine,  the  other  of  glorious 
abandon.  "  In  case  of  overwhelming  trouble,"  she  often 
asked  herself,  "  to  which  of  these  lives  should  I  fly  for  com- 
fort, for  consolation  ?  "  Surely  a  nature  so  noble"  as 
hers  was  capable  of  fighting  sorrow  with  the  weapons  of 
quiet,  order,  and  industry  with  which  her  grandmother  had 
so  perfectly  armed  her,  and  of  winning  a  glorious  peace, 
such  as  her  grandmother  had  won  ?  So  she  said  to  herself, 
until  she  looked  in  the  glass,  and  then  she  found  it  difficult 
to  believe.  Could  that  imperial  diadem  of  hair  ever  come 
to  be  smoothed  down  under  a  white-laced  cap  ?  Could 
those  steady-set  hawk-like  eyes  ever  get  into  them  the 
tender  hare-like  look  of  Lady  Southmolton ;  and,  more 
than  all,  could  that  somewhat  large  stern  mouth  ever  learn 
to  set  itself  into  the  peaceful  eternal  smile  which  sat  like 
some  gleam  of  heaven  on  the  beautiful  old  woman's  lips  ? 
Mrs.  Hannah  More  was  a  wise  woman,  but  Laura  used  to 
doubt  her  power  of  having  done  that  even  were  she  alive. 
"  They  will  never  make  a  saint  of  me,"  she  used  to  say  to 
herself.  "  I'll  be  a  good  woman,  but  I  shall  never  be  a 
saint.  Papa  has  spoilt  me.  If  anything  does  happen,  I 
will  stay  by  him.  He  and  his  ways  suit  me  best,  I  fear. 
I  shall  always  have  my  horse,  and  be  able  to  ride  myself 
tired  among  these  long-drawn  valleys.  I  wish  I  was  bet- 
ter, but  he  has  spoilt  me  !  " 


Chapter  XI 

LAURA  had  a  great  curiosity  to  see  that  personage  who 
was  called  by  her  grandmother  "  the  new  young  man." 
She  had  been  detained  at  home  by  some  accident  on  the 
day  of  his  first  appearance.  Her  father,  however,  had  so 
consistently  bored  every  one  to  death  that  evening  by  his 
account  of  the  run,  which  would  have  filled  three  columns 


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of  Bell,  and  by  the  manifold  excellences  of  his  new  St. 
Hubert,  that  Laura  remembered  that  old  Mrs.  Squire,  the 
huntsman's  aged  mother,  had  not  been  so  well  for  two  or 
three  days,  and  that  she  was  very  much  to  blame  for  not 
having  been  to  see  her ;  and  moreover,  by-the-bye,  that 
there  was  a  new  litter  of  puppies  at  the  kennels,  and  she 
might  as  well  step  on  from  old  Mrs.  Squire's  and  see  them. 
It  pleased  her  father  that  she  should  sympathise  with  his 
favourite  pursuits.  Since  the  expedition  of  St.  Ursula  and 
the  eleven  thousand  virgins,  there  never  was  a  more  inno- 
cent, more  necessary  expedition  than  this  of  Laura  that 
winter  morning.  It  was  plainly  her  duty.  Of  course,  if 
the  New  Young  Man  happened  to  be  at  the  kennels,  she 
would  be  rewarded  by  seeing  that  remarkable  character. 
That  he  couldn't,  by  the  wildest  possibility,  be  anywhere 
else  at  that  time  of  day  never  struck  her — of  course  ! 

Still  the  Hannah-More  half  of  her  was  in  the  ascendant 
to-day.  It  was  a  non-hunting  day.  She  felt  a  craving  to 
bolster  herself  up  with  formulas  and  precedents,  after  the 
manner  of  that  school.  Old  Elspie,  her  Scotch  nurse,  was 
a  great  crony  of  Mrs.  Squire,  both  being  advanced  Calvin- 
ists.  Laura  would  just  step  up  and  ask  her  what  she 
thought  of  Mrs.  Squire's  state,  and  if  it  was  not  necessary 
for  her  to  go,  why  of  course  she  would  stay  at  home.  She 
was  going  to  do  one  of  the  most  simple,  natural  things 
possible,  to  gratify  her  curiosity  by  looking  at  a  new  ser- 
vant. And  yet ,  she  would  be  glad  of  a  false  excuse 

for  doing  so  ;  she  would  have  been  almost  disappointed  if 
Mrs.  Squire  had  been  better. 

She  went  upstairs  into  a  room,  whose  long-mullioned 
window  looked  upon  the  distant  moor ;  and  there  she 
found  an  old  and,  physically  speaking,  very  ugly  old 
Scotchwoman,  with  a  long  hooked  nose,  and  gleaming 
grey  eyes.  This  old  woman  was  dressed  for  walking, 
with  an  awful  fantastic  bonnet,  and  a  crutched  stick  like 
Mother  Bunch's.  Her  father's  joke  struck  her  forcibly— 
Elspie  did  look  very  like  a  witch  indeed ! 

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"  Elspie,  dear,"  she  said,  "  have  you  heard  how  Mrs. 
Squire  is  ?  " 

"  She  is  just  deeing,"  was  the  answer,  "  and  I'm  awa  to 
see  her.  There'll  be  manifestations  when  she  is  caught 
up,  I'm  thinking.  Last  night,  while  I  sat  with  her,  there 
came  a  sough  of  wind  round  the  house,  which  would  have 
swelled  into  music,  if  that  ill-faured  auld  witch,  Mother 
Garden,  hadna  been  there.  I  ken  of  her  tickling  a  pad- 
dock wi  twa  barley  straes  held  crosswise,  to  change  the 
wind.  She  should  be  burnt  in  bear  strae  herself,  the 
witch.  To  depart  from  the  gude  honest  auld  practice  of 
knouting  aught  thrums  of  hempen  cord,  with  saxteen 
knots  apiece,  and  calling  twal  times  on — guide  us  where's 
my  sneeshin — ,  which  mony  a  time  I've  done  myself, 
Gude  forgie  me,  with  the  best  success." 

Laura  laughed  loudly,  kissed  the  old  woman,  and  said 
she  would  go  with  her. 

They  walked  slowly  together  through  the  shadows  of 
the  park,  which  comprised  all  the  promontory  between 
the  narrow  estuary  of  the  VVysclith  on  the  left,  and  the 
broad  dangerous  sands  of  the  Avon  on  the  right.  Betwixt 
the  tree-stems  on  either  side  they  could  see  gleams  of  yel- 
low sand  and  sea-green  water.  Where  the  trees  broke, 
Poyntz  Castle  loomed  up  grandly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river  close  at  hand.  There  was  no  regular  avenue,  but  be- 
yond the  trees  which  bordered  the  carriage  -  way,  the 
Moor,  the  mother  of  waters,  was  visible,  and  seemed  to 
gladden  old  Elspie's  Highland  eyes. 

She  tattled  on  incessantly.  It  was  a  beautiful  country, 
she  said,  to  the  blinded  eyes  of  those  who  had  never  seen 
solitary  Rannoch  and  lonely  majestic  Schehallion.  God 
had  left  the  people  here  to  wax  fat  until  they  kicked,  in 
proof  of  which  He  sent  no  snow  ;  and  twaddling  on  un- 
contradicted  with  her  argument,  no  whisky  and  deil  a 
screed  of  the  pipes  from  ae  year's  end  to  the  ither.  The 
trout  were  but  poor  things,  and  the  blessed  salmon  them- 
selves were  naething  to  the  Scottish  salmon,  though,  with 

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her  wonderful  honesty,  she  confessed  that  she  had  never 
seen  but  one  at  Rannoch  in  her  life.  The  Gospel  in  all 
its  purity  was  preached  here,  she  allowed,  but  in  holes  and 
corners ;  and  then  she  gave  Laura  a  piece  of  her  mind 
about  the  High  Church  rector,  and  about  what  would  hap- 
pen to  her  (Laura)  for  the  prominent  part  she  was  taking 
in  the  Christmas  decorations  of  the  church.  But  Laura 
only  half-heard  her,  for  she  was  away  on  horseback,  over 
a  particular  line  of  country,  over  which  she  had  always 
hoped  the  fox  would  go,  but  over  which  he  never  did. 
Then  Elspie  went  on  to  say  that  the  people  here  were 
sunk  in  the  grossest  superstition,  after  which  she  rambled 
on  into  describing  a  never-failing  spell  of  her  own  for  do- 
ing something  or  another,  "  and  then  ye  pit  the  thimmle 
halfway  betwixt  the  twa  bannocks,  and  ye  turn  to  the  four 
airts,  and  ye  say  four  times  to  ilka  airt — '  Hech  sirs,  see 
to  yon  hoodie,  she's  waur  I'm  thinking.'  " 

The  last  sentence  was  not  Elspie's  incantation — it  was 
only  a  natural  exclamation.  If  she  had  said,  "your  twa 
dizzen  hoodies,"  it  would  have  been  equally  correct.  They 
had  arrived  at  Mrs.  Squire's  cottage,  the  last  house  in  the 
village,  close  to  the  tideway,  and  there  were  Royston  crows 
enough  about  in  every  direction. 

They  went  in,  but  there  was  no  one  on  the  ground- 
floor.  A  man's  voice  was  audible  upstairs,  apparently 
talking  to  the  sick  woman.  Elspie  immediately  prepared 
for  going  upstairs  in  extreme  wrath.  The  voice,  as  far  as 
they  could  hear  it,  was  the  voice  of  Mr.  Parsons,  the  Trac- 
tarian  rector.  In  Elspie's  eyes  the  sin  of  a  Romanising 
Episcopalian,  like  the  Rector,  daring  to  trouble  the  death- 
bed of  an  elected  Calvinist  with  his  miserable  soulless 
formalisms,  was  a  sin  too  horrible  to  be  tolerated  for  a 
moment.  She  charged  the  stairs,  and  Laura  shoved  her  up 
right  willingly,  knowing  that  her  Highland  respect  for 
rank  would  prevent  her  insulting  a  guest  of  her  father's 
house  in  his  daughter's  presence. 

They  came  silently  into  the  room  of  death,  for  it  was 

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so.  She  saw  at  once  that  it  was  not  the  Rector  who  was 
bending  over  the  dying  woman,  but  a  stranger.  She 
heard  him  say,  "  Mother,  your  assurance  of  salvation  is  so 
great  that  if  I  were  a  duke  I  would  change  with  you. 
Think  of  your  future,  and  think  of  the  hell  which  is 
before  me.  Do  you  think  I  would  not  change  with 
you  ?  " 

That  was  all  they  heard,  for  the  next  instant  the  stranger 
turned  and  saw  them.  Before  he  had  time  to  do  so, 
Laura's  heart  was  melted  with  pity  towards  him;  and 
when  he  did  so,  she  looked  on  the  most  magnificent 
young  man  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life. 

There  was  more  mischief  done  in  the  next  five  minutes 
than  was  thoroughly  undone  in  the  next  five  years.  It 
was  very  wrong,  and  Mrs.  Hannah  More  would  have 
been  very  angry ;  but  it  will  happen,  you  know,  and  it 
does.  Poor  Laura  tried  hard  to  undo  that  five  minutes' 
work,  but  she  never  entirely  did — circumstances  were  so 
fearfully  against  her. 

A  wonderfully  splendid  young  fellow,  very  young,  so 
young  as  to  be  beardless,  yet  well-grown  and  graceful. 
In  her  memory  he  lived  as  a  perfectly  beautiful  young 
man,  with  large  steadfast  eyes,  and  a  look  of  deep  sorrow 
in  them  and  in  the  whole  of  his  face,  which  had  not  yet 
developed  into  despair. 

As  Elspie  moved  towards  the  bed,  he  rose  and  came 
towards  them.  He  was  singularly  well-dressed,  and 
looked  the  gentleman  he  was  every  inch  of  him ;  there 
was  no  man  in  that  part  of  the  country  who  could  com- 
pare with  him.  Hilton  was  grand  enough  in  his  way,  but 
he  wanted  the  keen  vitality  which  dwelt  in  every  look, 
every  action  of  this  one.  Laura  had  never  seen  anyone 
like  him  at  all.  She  was  very  plainly  dressed,  as  she  gen- 
erally was  when  about  home.  They  could  scarcely  help 
speaking  to  one  another.  They  both  felt  they  were  in  the 
presence  of  death,  and  thought  but  little  of  forms  or  in- 
troductions. Each  was  only  conscious  that  the  other  was 

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wondrously  attractive,  and  they  talked  like  two  children. 
He  began, — 

"  Death  in  such  a  form  as  he  takes  here  loses  all  his  ter- 
rors. The  most  selfish  sybarite  would  hold  out  his  whlte 
hands,  and  take  him  to  his  bosom,  if  he  came  in  this  form." 

The  young  lady  was  the  very  last  young  lady  in  Eng- 
land to  yield  to  anyone  in  a  conversation  of  this  kind. 
She  loved  it  with  her  whole  soul.  She  plunged  into  it  at 
once,  looking  frankly  into  the  stranger's  eyes. — 

"  The  death  is  beautiful.  Yes  !  of  course  it  is.  But  it 
is  merely  the  corollary  of  the  life.  How  could  it  be  any- 
thing but  beautiful,  after  such  a  life :  brutal  ingratitude 
met  with  patient  love  and  forgiveness — grinding  poverty 
endured  with  saintlike  patience — a  charity  which  hoped 
all  things  and  believed  all  things — helpful  diligence  towards 
those  in  affliction,  and  genial  sympathy  for  those  in  pros- 
perity ?  Of  course  her  death  is  beautiful." 

"  So  you  think  that  the  death  will  be  peaceful  according 
as  the  life  has  been  good  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  the  converse  of  your  proposition  ? 
Do  you  believe  that  no  man  after  a  life  of  misused  oppor- 
tunities, of  anger,  of  frivolity  which  he  despised,  of  aim- 
less idleness  which  he  loathed,  would  not  take  death  in 
his  arms  as  his  dearest  friend,  just  as  this  old  woman  is 
doing  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not.  Death  to  him  would  be  the  executioner 
with  the  mask  and  axe,  not  the  angel  with  the  crown  of 
glory." 

"  That  is  not  a  very  comfortable  creed  for  those  who 
seek  death  as  a  rest  from  misfortune  and  life-long  trouble, 
which  troubles  evermore  and  will  not  cease  troubling." 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  replied  Laura.  "  I  did  not  mean  it  to 
be.  If  I  ever  met  anyone  who  was  so  supremely  and  sen- 
timentally silly  as  to  say  in  earnest  what  you  have  been 
advancing  as  a  speculation,  I  should  have  much  more  to 
say  on  the  subject." 

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For  she  suddenly  had  to  fall  back  on  Mrs.  Hannah 
More  and  the  straitlaced  regularities  double-quick ;  for 
this  tall  youth  was  dropping  these  sentimental  platitudes 
out  of  his  handsome  mouth  in  such  a  careless,  graceful, 
melodious  manner,  that  she  began  to  find  that  she  must 
either  get  angry  or  cry. 

They  passed  out  of  the  house  together,  and  parted  with 
a  bow.  Laura  was  so  trained  to  habit  that  she  seldom 
departed  from  a  plan  she  had  laid  down.  She  went  on 
towards  the  kennels,  more  because  she  had  started  with 
that  intention  than  because  she  cared  to  see  much  of  the 
puppies.  Her  deeply  -  hidden  design  of  seeing  the  New 
Young  Man  was  no  more  ;  she  had  forgotten  all  about  him. 

The  old  huntsman,  a  little  weasened  lean  old  man  about 
sixty,  son  of  the  woman  who  was  dying ;  a  man  with  a 
keen  grey  eye,  which,  though  half  hidden  under  his  eye- 
brows, was  always  on  yours,  received  her.  They  were  on 
the  flags  together  in  amicable  dispute  about  some  one  of 
the  young  hounds,  which  had  been  brought  out  for  in- 
spection, when  the  stranger  whom  she  had  only  just  left, 
and  of  whom  she  had  not  yet  ceased  thinking,  came  up 
and  said  to  the  huntsman, — 

"  I'll  go  across  to  Clercombe  then,  and  fetch  that  puppy 
home.  I  shall  take  Xicotencatl,  or  he'll  be  too  fresh  for 
you  to-morrow.  Mind  you  look  at  that  dog's  foot  again, 
do  not  forget  it."  And  so  he  went. 

Laura  had  voice  to  ask  Squire  who  that  might  be. 

"  The  new  gentleman,  Miss,"  said  the  voice,  which  came 
from  under  the  keen  grey  old  eye. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  new  whip  ?  "  she  asked,  in  blank 
astonishment. 

"  I  calls  him  the  new  master,  Miss.  I  give  way  to  him 
at  once,  and  so  he's  took  to  ordering  Sir  Charles  about 
now,  and  he  seems  to  like  it." 

"  You  seem  to  like  it  too  ?  "  said  Laura ;  "  you  take  it 
very  easily  ?  " 

**  If  gentlemen  takes  the  place  of  whips,  such  as  I  must 

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obey  their  orders,"  said  Squire.  "  You  weren't  out  a  Tues- 
day, Miss  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  was  not." 

"  Did  Sir  Charles  mention  to  you  or  to  her  ladyship  the 
fact  that  he  wouldn't  ride  in  a  frock  ?  " 

"  No.     You  mean  the  new  whip,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  The  new  Dook  I  mean,  of  course,  come  out  in  a 
swallowtailed  pink  like  a  gentleman.  I  point  it  out  to  him 
very  gentle.  '  I'm  not  going  to  ride  in  a  frock,'  he  snaps. 
'  The  master  himself  does,'  I  urged.  '  The  devil  he  does  ! ' 
says  he  ;  '  then  I  suppose  I  must.  But  I  am  not  going  to 
wear  that  beastly  thing  the  tailor  sent  home  for  me.  I 
will  have  one  built  at  Plymouth.  Is  there  a  decent  tailor 
there  ?  '  And  so  he  picks  his  horse  and  goes  over.  And 
he  has  been  snapping  my  nose  off  because  the  tailor  has 
not  sent  his  coat  in,  and  he  is  going  to  ride  in  his  swallow- 
tail to-morrow,  and  says  he  will  apologise  to  Sir  Charles 
if  he  thinks  about  it." 

"Are  all  the  Leicestershire  men  such  dandies?"  said 
Laura. 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  not,  Miss,"  said  old  Squire,  looking 
keenly  at  her  with  his  grey  old  eye.  "  Foxhunting  would 
be  expensive  if  they  were." 

"  Does  he  understand  his  business  ?  " 

"  Not  he.  But  he  thinks  he  do,  which  is  much  ;  and  he 
is  a  capital  hand  at  giving  orders,  which  is  more.  And  he 
is  cool." 

"  Cool  over  his  fences,  you  mean  ?  "  said  Laura. 

"  Cool  with  the  field  /  mean,"  said  Squire.  "  A  Tues- 
day he  rode  The  Elk,  and  he  went  over  a  big  thing  in  front 
of  your  father,  and  waits  for  him.  And  Sir  Charles  comes 
up  and  he  funks  it,  for  it  were  a  awful  big  thing,  for  fegs 
it  were !  And  Mr.  Hammersley  goes  round  and  opens  the 
gate  for  him ;  and  I  hearn  him  say,  '  We  shouldn't  have 
funked  that  ten  years  ago,  Sir  Charles — hey  ?  '  And  your 
father  says, '  That  is  a  regular  Leicestershire  trick,  to  ride 
a  man's  best  horse,  that  could  carry  his  ten  pounds  extra, 

38 


Leighton  Court 

and  then  chaff  him  for  not  taking  his  fences.'  But  he 
laughed  again,  and  he  said,  '  No,  Sir  Charles,  it  won't  do. 
It's  the  ten  years,  not  the  ten  pounds.  Old  Time  has 
handicapped  us  all.'  And  when  we  checked  the  first  time, 
he  offered  his  cigar-case  to  Tom  Downes,  who  asked  to  be 
introduced,  and  looked  mad  when  he  found  out  who  he 
was.  That  is  what  /  call  coolness.  But  he  always  were 
the  best  of  the  lot,  say  what  you  will." 

"  Best  of  what  lot  ?  "  asked  Laura. 

"  Of  the  Leicestershire  lot,  Miss,"  replied  the  old  fellow, 
quickly.  "  They  are  a  troublesome  lot  for  the  most  part, 
Miss,  as  you  will  find  when  you  get  to  know  the  world  as 
well  as  I  do.  Too  gentlemanly,  for  instance.  But  this 
young  man,  he  is  what  I  call  a  model." 

"  Are  they  all  gentlemen  ?  "  asked  Laura. 

"  Not  all  on  'em,  Miss.  This  young  man  is  perhaps 
rather  exasperating  gentlemanlike.  But  they  all  have  the 
same  ways,  in  some  degree." 

Laura  went  home  again :  knowing  in  the  inmost  re- 
cesses of  her  soul,  in  her  consciousness,  that  something 
had  happened  to  her,  which  the  intelligent  and  the  emo- 
tional part  of  her  equally  refused  to  recognise — a  some- 
thing, which  those  two-thirds  of  her  soul,  which  lay  nearest 
to  the  surface,  absolutely  refused  to  name.  Her  intelli- 
gence would  not,  as  yet,  tell  herself,  nor  would  her  emo- 
tions, as  yet,  allow  her  to  tell  anybody  else,  that  she  had 
fallen  in  love  with  this  young  gentleman.  If  her  intelli- 
gence had  told  this  fact  to  herself,  or  if  her  emotions  had 
got  so  far  out  of  the  guidance  of  Hannah-Moreism  as  to 
allow  her  to  tell  it  to  anyone  else,  she  would  have  been 
covered  with  shame  and  indignation.  But  she  knew  it  per- 
fectly well ;  and  was  most  heartily  frightened,  as  was  the 
German  student,  when  he  left  his  monster  in  his  room,  and 
feared  to  come  back  there  for  fear  of  meeting  it,  in  all  its 
monstrous  horror.  There  are  three  ways  of  knowing 
things  ;  she  had  only  got  to  the  first  as  yet.  Familiar  in- 
tercourse was  to  give  her  the  second,  grief  the  third. 

30 


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Meanwhile  that  most  unaccountable  old  trot  Mother 
Nature  had  been  casting  her  kevels,  and  had  arranged  that 
these  two  young  people  should  fall  in  love  with  one  an- 
other. What  that  means  exactly  we  none  of  us  know. 
But  it  happened  here  most  unmistakably. 


Chapter  XII 

LAURA  passed  the  rest  of  that  day  in  the  most  praise- 
worthy activity.  Her  poor  people  done,  she  armed  herself 
with  a  Biographical  Dictionary,  and  settled  steadily  down 
to  Fronde's  first  volume,  which  had  just  arrived,  to  work 
at  it  till  lunch-time.  What  had  passed  that  morning  she 
chose  to  ignore  utterly  to  herself.  She  once  went  so  far 
as  to  make  the  admission,  "  I  was  very  nearly  being  silly 
this  morning.  I  was  not  at  all  myself.  It  was  that  poor 
woman's  approaching  death  upset  me."  Nothing  more 
than  this.  She  determined  on  an  expansive  course  of  study 
of  the  Tudor  times,  got  out  a  new  manuscript  book,  in  the 
which  to  take  notes,  determined  to  be  utterly  sceptical  about 
Mr.  Froude's  conclusions,  and  diligently  to  spy  out  every 
deficiency.  She  got  her  pens,  ink,  MS.  book,  and  blotting- 
paper  all  ready,  settled  herself  at  the  writing-table  with  the 
volume  before  her,  and  then  sat  down  and  began  thinking 
about  the  incomprehensible  impudence  of  this  wonderful 
Hammersley,  until  she  found  it  wouldn't  do,  and  went  to 
work  in  serious  sober  earnest.  Her  diligence  met  with  its 
reward  ;  for  after  reading  steadily  till  lunch-time,  practising 
until  the  carriage  came  round,  making  herself  agreeable  to 
Lord  Hatterleigh  and  her  grandmother  during  their  drive, 
and  writing  letters  for  her  father  till  the  dressing-bell  rang, 
she  found  that  the  little  something  which  had  existed  in 
the  morning  had  ceased  to  exist,  and  that  she  was  in  a 
mood  of  lofty  scorn  with  herself,  for  having  in  the  deepest, 
dimmest,  seven-fold  depths  of  her  soul  allowed  that  any- 
thing of  that  kind  had  for  an  instant  existed. 

40 


Leighton  Court 

A  mood  of  lofty  self-scorn  is  seen  probably  to  better  ad- 
vantage on  the  stage  than  in  the  drawing-room.  The 
drawing-room,  I  take  it,  is,  to  use  our  modern  elegant 
language,  a  sphere  devoted  to  the  gentler  and  more  elegant 
emotions.  The  proper  place  for  tantrums  is  the  library,  or, 
if  you  have  such  an  apartment,  the  ancestral  hall,  with  the 
portraits  of  your  forefathers  scowling  gloomily  down  on 
the  petty  passions  of  their  ephemeral  and  degenerate  suc- 
cessors. Laura  had  no  business  to  bring  her  scorn  into  the 
drawing-room  and  frighten  her  grandmother,  not  to  men- 
tion astonishing  (no,  he  couldn't  be  astonished,  he  never 
got  so  high  as  that),  surprising  Lord  Hatterleigh  to  that 
extent  that  he  feared  there  was  an  insufficient  quantity  of 
pepsine  in  his  dinner-pills. 

"  What  have  you  done  to-day,  Miss  Seckerton  ?  "  he 
asked  her,  leaning  back  with  his  legs  stretched  out  and 
folded  before  him. 

"  Being  foolish  all  the  morning,  and  trying  to  persuade 
myself  that  I  had  been  nothing  of  the  kind  all  the  after- 
noon," replied  Laura.  "  Do  you  ever  do  that  ?  " 

"  What !   make  a  fool  of  myself  ?  " 

"  No  ;  of  course  you  do  that ;  we  all  do.  I  mean,  do  you 
ever  try  to  persuade  yourself  that  you  haven't?  " 

This  being  considerable  nonsense  sounded  obscure  and 
difficult,  and  Lord  Hatterleigh  brought  his  mind  to  bear 
upon  it.  He  refolded  his  legs  slowly,  putting  the  one 
lately  underneath  uppermost,  folded  his  hands  on  the  pit  of 
his  stomach,  and  said,  to  begin, — 

"  Say  that  again,  will  you,  Miss  Seckerton  ?  " 

"  It  was  hardly  worth  saying  the  first  time/'  she  an- 
swered ;  "  I  certainly  can't  say  it  twice  over." 

This  was  very  disconcerting,  and  he  sat  perfectly  silent 
for  a  time,  and  then  made  another  attempt  to  talk.  But 
she  would  not  talk  to  him  to-day.  She  was  not  in  the 
humour  to  tolerate  his  weary  platitudes,  and  she  let  him 
see  it.  She  was  unkind  to  him  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 
She  disturbed  him  so  much  by  her  brusquerie  and  petu- 


Leighton  Court 

lance  that  he  felt  it  necessary  to  go  for  a  jog-trot  ride  on 
one  of  his  three  hobbyhorses  to  forget  it.  The  medical 
horse  was  unavailable  in  the  present  company ;  he  had 
been  riding  his  political  horse  all  day,  to  Sir  Charles's  in- 
tense exasperation.  So  he  mounted  the  genealogical  pal- 
frey, and  went  out  for  a  ride  with  old  Lady  Southmolton. 
He  put  her  gently  in  her  saddle- when  he  gave  her  his  arm 
in  to  dinner,  and  with  the  exception  of  a  blundering  gallop 
on  his  political  cob,  when  the  men  were  left  over  their  wine, 
rambled  with  her  through  green  lanes  of  pedigrees  until 
bedtime ;  and  even  over  his  wine-and-water  at  eleven, 
after  she  had  gone  to  bed,  seemed  strongly  inclined  to 
penetrate  as  far  as  her  venerated  bedroom,  and  correct  her 
for  some  blunder  which  he  averred  she  had  made,  were  it 
only  through  the  keyhole. 

"  Who  was  that,  Lady  Mary  Saunders,  we  saw  to-day  ?  " 
he  began,  as  he  was  taking  her  in ;  "  the  little  yellow 
woman  with  the  wig,  at  the  red-brick  house  with  the  bee- 
hives on  the  lawn — a  very  well-bred  woman  indeed,  hus- 
band a  Tory," 

"  She  was  a  Spettigue." 

"  Which  Spettigues,  the  Cromer  or  the  Scilly  Spetti- 
gues  ?  " 

"  Neither.  She  belongs  to  the  halfway  house  ;  she  is  the 
third  daughter  of  Lord  Mapledurham." 

"  Oh,  a  Spettigoo"  (so  he  pronounced  it).  "  They  have 
dropped  the  '  e,'  my  dear  Lady  Southmolton,  in  the  pres- 
ent generation.  Wasn't  there  something  about  one  of  her 
brothers  ?  I  seem  to  fancy  that  there  was." 

"  Nothing  very  much  ;  Charles  lives  away  from  his  wife." 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Lord  Hatterleigh,  "  and  how  was  that  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know.  There  were  two  sides  to  the  story. 
She  has  got  her  party,  and  he  has  got  his.  Some  say  that 
he  treated  her  very  badly,  and  some  say  she  gave  him  good 
cause.  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  was  furious  at  having  his  name 
mixed  up  in  it." 

"  Oh,  he  was  in  it,  was  he  ?  " 

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"  He  says  he  was  not." 

"  All  the  more Do  you  know  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  my 

dear  Lady  Southmolton  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  him  and  his  from  a  boy." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  try  to  think  the  best  of  him." 

"  I  should  not  like  to  have  his  character,"  said  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh.  "  They  say  he  is  profligate  beyond  precedent, 
false  beyond  contempt,  and  avaricious  beyond — beyond 
thingamy  ! " 

"  It  is  rather  hard  to  accuse  him  of  avarice,  I  think,"  said 
the  kind  old  lady.  "  He  has  succeeded  in  clearing  the 
estate,  which  was  dipped  so  shamefully  by  his  father." 

"  No,  really  ;  I  thought  it  would  have  taken  years  more 
to  do  it." 

"  So  did  everyone  else.  But  see,  he  has  done  it.  He 
has  refused  to  renew  Mr.  Huxtable's  lease  of  the  Castle, 
and  is  to  be  our  next-door  neighbour  after  the  end  of  this 
year." 

"  Then,  will  people  call  on  him  ?  " 

"  I  should  suppose,  of  course,  they  will,"  said  Lady 
Southmolton.  "  He  has  done  nothing  which  would  give 
them  any  excuse  for  such  an  extreme  measure  as  not  doing 
so." 

"  Why,  no.  But  I  could  like  a  man  more,  far  more,  who 
had  made  one  grand  fiasco.  For  instance,  Colonel  I  key 
has  made  a  mess  of  it,  an  awful  mess,  and  he  don't  show. 
But  I  tell  you  honestly,  I  would  sooner  be  Ikey  behind  his 
cloud,  than  I  would  keep  my  name  on  my  club-books  with 
Sir  Harry  Poyntz'  reputation.  He  will  never  step  over  the 
line,  but  if  he  ever  did,  no  man  would  be  found  to  say, 
'  Poor  Harry  Poyntz  ! ' ' 

"  I  want  to  make  the  best  of  him,"  said  Lady  South- 
molton. 

"  You  always  want  to  make  the  best  of  everybody  ;  you 
Hortons  always  do,  you  know.  You  can't  help  it ;  good- 
ness is  in  your  blood ;  you  have  given  yourselves  to  peace- 

43 


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making  for  these  two  centuries.  But  all  the  Hortons  since 
the  Conquest  won't  whitewash  this  fellow ;  he  is  too  utterly 
ill-conditioned.  He  has  a  brother,  has  he  not  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  just  gone  to  India." 

"  By  the  same  mother  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes.  Robert  Poyntz ;  I  remember  him  as  a  pretty 
bright  boy,  a  very  nice  boy." 

"  There  is  another  brother,  I  heard  of  the  other  day  only 
— a  Falconbridge,  a  splendid  fellow  by  all  descriptions ; 
have  you  ever  heard  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  such  a  person,  but  I  never,  never 
heard  of  his  splendour.  I  have  always  understood  him  to 
be  a  sad  mauvais  sujet.  A  very  disreputable  person,  is 
he  not  ?  " 

"  No.  I  have  heard  no  harm  of  him  worse  than  that  he 
was  riding  steeplechases,  or  acting  as  huntsman  or  some- 
thing, in  Leicestershire  last  year.  He  seemed  to  be  a 
somewhat  remarkable  fellow  —  a  youth  who  seemed  to 
play  Count  Saxe  to  old  Sir  George  Poyntz'  August  der 
Starke.  What  do  you  know  about  Robert  Poyntz,  the 
brother  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  but  very  little  good,"  said  Lady  Southmol- 
ton.  "  I  fear  he  is  very  dissipated.  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  he  will  soon  be  in  possession.  Sir  Harry 
Poyntz  is  a  doomed  man ;  he  has  ruined  his  constitution 
by  profligacy,  and  has  had  one  or  more  attacks  of  angina 
pectoris.  You  will  have  this  Robert  Poyntz  at  the  Castle 
in  a  couple  of  years,  mark  my  words  !  " 

So  Lord  Hatterleigh  and  Lady  Southmolton.  Let  us 
see  what  they  were  talking  about  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table.  Laura  was  sitting  next  to  Lord  Hatterleigh ;  but 
he  did  not  speak  to  her,  for  she  had  frightened  him.  He 
calmed  himself  by  talking  to  that  well-conducted  old  Lady 
Southmolton.  As  I  said  before,  he  did  not  feel  equal  to 
Laura  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  She  was  very  much 
pleased  at  not  having  to  amuse  him,  and  most  willingly 
left  him  to  talk  with  her  grandmother.  But  we  shall  have 

44 


Leighton  Court 

to  follow  the  conversation  at  what  may  properly  be  called 
the  noisy  end  of  the  table,  as  distinguished  from  the  quiet 
end,  where  Lord  Hatterleigh  mumbled  and  spluttered  as 
above  to  Lady  Southmolton.  Lady  Emily  tried  not  to 
yawn,  and  Sir  Peckvvich  Downes,  who,  from  his  figure, 
seemed  to  have  three  stomachs,  ruminated  over  his  dinner, 
listening  to  Lord  Hatterleigh,  and  confined  his  observa- 
tions to  saying  in  a  deep  voice  "  Sherry !  "  whenever  the 
butler  offered  him  champagne,  or  any  frivolous  drinks  of 
that  kind.  We  will  take  up  the  conversation  at  the  noisy 
end. 

THE  VICAR. — "  I  deny  your  position,  Colonel  Hilton. 
The  great  Bithynian  Council  was  merely  assembled  for  the 
purpose  of  condemning  Arianism.  That  was  its  sptcialitd. 
I  deny  that  I  am  bound  by  it  further  than  that.  As  re- 
gards sumptuary  laws  for  the  priesthood,  it  did  absolutely 
nothing.  It  left  them  to  be  developed  by  the  Western 
Church " 

COLONEL  HILTON. — "The  Papists." 

THE  VICAR. — "  The  Western  Church,  sir.  Thus  our 
chasuble  is  developed  from  the  blanket  of  the  shepherd  of 
the  Campagna,  our  dalmatic  from " 

SIR  GEORGE. — "  But  where  are  you  to  stop  in  your  de- 
velopment ?  We  fox-hunters,  about  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  developed  our  vestments  into  breeches  and  top- 
boots,  and  there  we  have  stuck  for  a  hundred  years.  But 
lately  a  number  of  young  fellows  have  shown  signs  of 
moving  forward  again,  and  have  appeared  in  grey  cords 
and  butchers'  boots.  One  of  your  boys,  Huxtable,  rode 
last  week  in  knickerbockers,  and  went  very  well  forward 
indeed.  I  was  very  much  offended  ;  I  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  it.  But  if  you  allow  that  Pu — ,  I  mean  that 
Church  vestments,  were  developed  out  of  something  which 
went  before,  I  cannot  see  at  what  point  you  are  to  stop 
that  development,  any  more  than  I  can  stop  breeches 
and  top-boots  from  developing  into  knickerbockers  and 
gaiters." 

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Leighton  Court     . 

THE  VICAR. — "  The  development  should  stop,  sir,  the 
instant  that  the  original  idea  of  the  vestment  is  lost." 

LAURA. — "  I  agree  with  the  Vicar.  Let  us  use  these 
Church  vestments  as  long  as  any  idea  worth  preserving  is 
preserved  by  them.  I  believe  in  symbols.  If  you  are  to 
wear  anything  at  all,  let  it  mean  something.  A  gown  and 
surplice  mean  nothing  at  all.  Now,  Mr.  Spurgeon,  when 
he  goes  into  the  pulpit  with  a  blue  necktie  and  a  white  hat, 
does  mean  something — a  something  /  don't  like ;  but,  at 
all  events,  he  means  something,  however  offensive  it  may 
be  to  me." 

COLONEL  HILTON. — "  I  am  converted.  Miss  Seeker- 
ton  has  put  it  so  well.  I  see  that  we  must  either  have 
Bryan  King,  with  his  albs  and  his  dalmatiques,  or  we  must 
have  Spurgeon,  with  his  white  bowler  hat  and  blue  tie." 

LAURA. — "  You  are  very  easily  converted,  Colonel  Hil- 
ton." 

COLONEL  HILTON. — "  Very  easily  indeed — by  you." 

LAURA. — "  Thank  you.  That  means,  that  you  are  never 
in  earnest  about  anything." 

COLONEL  HILTON  (in  his  softest  voice). — "  Only  very 
much  in  earnest  about  one  thing." 

LAURA  (looking  at  him  with  strong  disfavour). — "And 
what  may  that  be,  for  instance  ?  " 

The  Colonel,  reduced  to  silence  for  a  moment,  and  feel- 
ing that  he  had  somehow  done  just  what  he  did  not  want 
to  do,  said — "  Is  it  really  true,  Mr.  Huxtable,  that  we  are 
to  lose  you,  and  that  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  is  coming  to  the 
castle  ?  " 

Mr.  Huxtable,  a  jolly  Yorkshire  giant,  said — "  Indeed  it 
is.  He  will  neither  sell,  nor  give  me  another  lease.  And 
I  have  offered  him  a  fancy  price,  too.  It  is  a  sad  pity  for 
the  Conservative  interest.  If  I  had  lived  in  that  dear  in- 
convenient old  castle  a  few  years  more,  I  should  have 
turned  a  Tory.  Lord  bless  you  !  No  one  could  stand  the 
atmosphere  of  the  dear  old  place.  Lock  John  Bright  up  a 
year  or  two  in  a  Norman  keep,  with  a  deer  park,  and  you 

46 


Leighton  Court 

would  find  him  walking  arm-in-arm  with  Disraeli  into  the 
Carlton." 

THE  VICAR. — "  The  atmosphere  of " 

MR.  HUXTABLE. — "  That  is  just  what  I  mean.  As  the 
atmosphere  of  Magdalen  turned  you  Tractarian,  so  the 
atmosphere  of  the  dear  old  place  would  turn  me  Tory.  I 
shall  go  back  to  Bradford,  build  a  red-brick  house,  and  go 
in  for  a  six-pound  suffrage  to  begin  with — only  begin 
with,  understand.  And  I  shall  also  turn  dissenter.  Ha ! 
ha!" 

THE  VICAR. — "  My  good  Sir " 

"  I  know  all  about  that,  Vicar.  It's  all  a  matter  of  at- 
mosphere, you  know.  Hey  ?  «  iavrtw  a-Topax<>» — hey  ? 
But,  seriously,  it  does  make  a  man  talk  radically  and 
wildly,  to  find  himself  turned  out  of  such  glorious  quarters 
as  these,  to  make  room  for  a  profligate  usurer." 

THE  VICAR. — "  I  can  quite  conceive  it.  I  wish  to  heav- 
en that  Sir  Harry  would  sell  to  you.  Since  you  have 
been  here  you  have  done  nothing  but  good.  You  have 
strengthened  my  hands  at  every  point,  although  you  have 
often  disagreed  with  me.  And  now  you  are  to  make 
room  for  a  profligate  atheistic  usurer." 

SIR  CHARLES. — "  My  dear  Vicar  !  " 

The  Vicar  only  looked  at  Sir  Charles,  and  Sir  Charles 
held  his  tongue  and  carved  the  venison. 

COLONEL  HILTON.—"  I  am  afraid  that  Mr.  Huxtable 
has  been  pauperising  the  labourers  hereabouts  with  his 
liberality.  They  have  got  to  depend  on  him  as  a  deus  ex 
Machind.  Nothing  can  be  more  demoralising  than  that. 
You  are  a  capital  political  economist,  Miss  Seckerton  ; 
you  will  agree  with  me." 

LAURA. — "  I  don't  see  how  Mr.  Huxtable,  with  all  his 
ingenuity,  can  have  succeeded  in  pauperising  men  with 
eleven  shillings  a  week,  three  to  five  children,  two  shillings 
a  week  off  for  rent,  a  pound  a  year  to  the  doctor,  which 
brings  them  down  to  little  over  eight  shillings,  out  of 
which  they  have  to  find  boots,  clothes,  and  firing." 

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COLONEL  HILTON  (somewhat  nettled  at  having  put 
his  foot  in  it  again). — "  It's  a  case  of  supply  and  demand, 
I  suppose." 

LAURA. — "  So  I  suppose.  It  is  a  positive  fact  that  the 
agricultural  population  could  not  get  on  at  all  without  ar- 
tificial assistance  from  the  gentry ;  and  I  suppose  we  don't 
help  them  from  Christian  good-will,  but  only  to  prevent 
the  ricks  from  catching  fire.  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

Laura  was  behaving  very  badly.  Her  father  was  pained 
and  astonished.  What  she  said  might  be  true,  but  she 
had  no  business  to  speak  in  that  way.  What  right  had 
she  to  talk  about  rick-burning  ?  No  lady  ever  did. 

Kind  Mr.  Huxtable  saw  all  this,  and  came  to  the  rescue 
with  the  best  intentions — with  one  of  those  intentions  with 
which  a  silly,  lying  old  proverb  says  that  "  hell  is  paved." 
He  made,  on  the  whole,  a  rather  worse  mess  of  it ;  but  his 
meaning  was  good,  and  by  no  means  the  sort  of  thing 
with  which  to  pave  hell.  He  tried  to  "  change  the  conver- 
sation," a  thing  I  have  never  yet  seen  done  with  the  slight- 
est success.  If  the  conversation  gets  awkward,  diligently 
try  to  lead  it  into  a  new  channel ;  but  don't  change  it,  and 
leave  the  whole  of  the  company  in  a  nervous  disconcerted 
frame  of  mind,  each  wondering  whether  or  not  he  or  she 
has  said  the  Dreadful  Thing  which  made  such  a  terrible 
remedy  necessary. 

"  That  is  a  splendid  young  fellow — that  new  whip  of 
yours — Sir  Charles,  if  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  calling  him 
so." 

Sir  Charles  agreed  that  he  was. 

"  Thrown  away  here  though,"  continued  Huxtable. — 
"  Goes  too  straight  for  this  country ;  won't  learn  to  potter. 
He  will  go  at  something  half  a  size  too  big  for  him  some 
day,  and  come  to  grief.  I  saw  him  go  at  some  terrible 
things  the  day  before  yesterday." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  enlist  him,"  said  Colonel  Hilton. 
"  He  would  make  a  capital  dragoon." 

"  He  is  a  cut  above  that  sort  of  thing,  I  fancy,"  said 

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Laura,  who  seemed  determined  to  behave  worse  as  the 
evening  got  later. 

Colonel  Hilton  was  getting  angry  with  her.  She  had 
given  him  the  dor  two  or  three  times  without  the  slightest 
offence  on  his  part,  and  he  was  not  going  to  stand  it. 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  a  whip  to  hounds  holds  a 
higher  position  than  that  of  the  light  cavalry  who  were  at 
Balaclava  ?  " 

"  I  say  nothing  about  them,"  said  Laura.  "  But  you 
must  acknowledge,  as  a  general  rule,  that  the  army  is  re- 
cruited from  the  lowest  class  in  the  community,  and  that 
you  never  get  a  man  to  enlist  if  he  can  do  anything  else 
with  himself." 

"  That  is  hardly  to  the  point.  I  deny  it ;  but  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  argument.  What  I  asked  was,  do 
not  you  think  that  the  position  of  a  trooper,  who  may 
have  the  Victoria  Cross,  which  I  wear  myself,  pinned  on 
his  coat  by  the  most  august  person  in  the  world,  is  supe- 
rior to  a  menial  servant  dressed  in  a  private  livery,  who 
feeds  the  hounds,  and  drowns  the  blind  puppies  ?  " 

"  It  depends  very  much  on  the  way  you  take  it,"  said 
Laura,  who  had  nothing  whatever  to  say,  and  so  said 
that. 

"  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Colonel  Hilton.  "  To  bring 
the  matter  to  practice.  I  sit  at  mess  with  a  man  whose 
father,  till  last  year,  was  working  as  a  journeyman  black- 
smith on  Finsbury  Pavement.  He  was  sergeant-major  in 
the  I4th  Hussars,  and  got  his  commission  for  service  ;  and 
as  it  is  best  for  a  man  who  rises  from  the  ranks  to  change 
his  regiment,  he  came  to  us.  We  received  him  with  open 
arms.  That  man  is  a  trusted  companion  of  mine,  one  of 
the  best  officers  I  have.  I  can  make  a  friend  of  that  man, 
but  I  don't  think  I  could  stand  a  menial  servant — a  mere 
minister  to  luxury,  a  kennel-boy.  If  there  are  to  be  any 
rules  about  that  sort  of  thing,  I  am  right ;  if  not,  I  am 
wrong." 

These  sentiments  were  far  too  near  the  creed  of  most 

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present  to  be  contradicted.  A  short  silence  ensued,  which 
was  more  flattering  than  applause,  during  which  Laura 
was  thinking. 

"  So  you  have  got  a  temper,  and  won't  always  stand 
contradiction,  eh,  Colonel  Hilton  ?  Well,  I  like  you  the 
better  for  it." 

It  was  broken  by  Sir  Peckwich  Downes  from  the  end  of 
the  table,  who,  as  he  had  finished  his  venison,  and  had  as 
much  sherry  as  he  wanted,  got  tired  of  thinking  what 
a  queer  lopsided  young  gaby  Lord  Hatterleigh  was,  and 
felt  conversational.  He  put  a  knife  up  his  sleeve,  and 
said  : — 

"  This  winter  venison  of  yours  is  too  fat.  Winter  veni- 
son always  is.  But  it  is  not  bad-flavoured.  Give  me  the 
old  rule  :  a  buck  a  week  till  September ;  neck  o'  Tuesday 
week,  haunch  o'  Thursday  week.  There  is  the  same  dif- 
ference between  a  Paris  chicken  and  a  nice  young  spring 
Dorking,  in  my  estimation.*  Your  fawn,  again,  is  new- 
fashioned  and  hasty." 

Sir  Charles  thought  that  the  conversation  was  changed, 
and  that  there  were  better  times  before  him.  He  tried  to 
catch  Sir  Peckwich's  eye,  and  bring  him  into  the  talk.  But 
his  eye  had  a  long  way  to  travel,  and  before  it  got  to  Sir 
Peckwich  it  was  arrested  by  a  stony  stare  from  the  Vicar. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  Vicar  to  the  unhappy  baronet,  in 
a  severe  clerical  voice, "  that  when  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  comes 
to  the  castle,  you  will  find  it  necessary  to  dismiss  your  new 
master  of  the  buckhounds." 

That  finished  him.  When  the  ladies  were  gone,  he  sat 
down  over  his  wine,  saying  to  himself, — 

"  Confound  these  moles  of  parsons  !  How  the  deuce 
did  he  find  that  out  ?  And  how,  in  the  name  of  all  con- 
fusion, did  he  know  that  I  knew  it  ?  " 

But  he  was  not  to  be  beat  by  fifty  vicars,  when  he  was 

*  The  worthy  baronet  is  possibly  obscure  to  some  of  our  read- 
ers, but  in  these  days  we  cannot  edit  him. 

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in  an  obstinate  mood.  In  spite  of  the  Vicar's  deprecation, 
he  insisted  on  seeing  him  through  the  darkest  part  of  the 
park,  and  as  he  left  him  said, — 

"  What  did  you  mean,  Vicar,  by  saying  that  I  must  dis- 
charge my  man  when  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  came  ?  " 

"  You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  the  Vicar. 

"  Do  you  think, "asked  Sir  Charles,  "  that  Harry  Poyntz 
knows  the  relation  in  which  this  young  man  stands  to 
him  ?  " 

"  As  well  as  you  or  I  do,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  Harry  is, 
as  you  know,  my  relation.  I  got  the  living  from  his  father, 
and  am  in  constant  communication  with  himself.  He 
knows  who  this  young  man  is  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  won't  do  to  keep  him  here,  then,"  said 
Sir  Charles. 

"  It  won't  do  for  one  instant,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  It  is 
not  to  be  thought  of  for  a  moment." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Sir  Charles,  stroking  his  chin. 
"  Well,  I  am  very  sorry,  for  he  is  a  charming  gentleman, 
and  I  should  have  liked  such  a  son." 

"  You  haven't  seen  much  of  him  yet,  have  you  ?  "  said 
the  Vicar. 

"  Why,  no,"  said  Sir  Charles. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  Vicar,  "  so  I  thought." 

"  Is  he  a  very  bad  fellow,  then  ?  "  asked  Sir  Charles. 

"  There  is  a  natural  depravity  in  our  human  nature  " — 
began  the  Vicar,  very  slowly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that  sort  of  thing,"  replied  Sir  Charles, 
quickly. 

"  I  know  you  didn't,"  said  the  Vicar,  looking  steadily  at 
him.  "  I  know  what  you  mean,  and  I  answer  that  the 
human  heart  is  naturally  depraved.  You  are  depraved, 
you  know.  As  for  me,  I  am  a  most  graceless  sinner." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Sir  Charles,  impatiently.  "  Is  this 
young  gentleman  so  extra  depraved  that  I  must  send  him 
about  his  business  ?  " 

"  You  want  an  excuse,"  said  the  Vicar. 


Leighton  Court 

"  I  don't  want  any  excuse,"  said  Sir  Charles.  "  Is  he 
any  worse  than  you  or  I,  then  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  but  it  won't  do  to  have  him  here  after 
Harry  Poyntz  comes." 

"  Does  he  know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  Does  he  know  that  you  know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  Pack  him  off 
about  his  business.  Do  you  know  the  dew  is  very  heavy  ? 
Good-night." 


Chapter  XIII 

IT  is  one  thing  to  go  to  bed  with  your  brain  active  from 
conversation  and  company,  brimful  of  to-morrow's  plans  ; 
and  quite  another  to  find,  after  you  are  in  bed,  that  this 
tiresome  brain  of  yours  will  go  on  grinding,  utterly  refus- 
ing to  stop,  like  Mrs.  Crowe's  mechanical  church  organ, 
and  declines  to  sink  into  sleep ;  nay,  sooner  than  do  that, 
will  go  on  playing  foolish  old  psalm-tunes,  against  your 
pillow,  until  you  don-'t  know  whether  the  weary  measure 
comes  from  your  head  or  from  the  pillow.  Under  these 
circumstances,  as  hour  after  hour  of  the  weary  night  goes 
on,  the  plans  of  the  morning  become  hateful ;  every  past 
sin,  every  past  omission,  every  future  contingency  of  evil 
becomes  prominent  and  immediate.  Life  seems  a  weary 
mistake,  and  that  darkest  midnight  thought  of  all,  that 
death  must  and  will  come  sooner  or  later,  is  apt  to  sit  and 
brood  upon  your  pillow. 

Laura  did  not  feel  all  this.  It  was  to  come  to  her.  But 
she  had  what  her  mother  or  her  grandmother  would  have 
called  "  a  wretched  night."  There  was  a  little  dumb,  dull 
imp  abroad  this  night,  which  was  not  to  be  named,  whose 
existence  was  not  to  be  allowed  under  penalties  too  horri- 
bte  for  contemplation — a  fiend  unnamed,  unrecognised, 
yet  horribly  real.  For  as  she  lay  awake,  with  all  the  phan- 

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tasmagoria  of  an  excited  brain  passing  before  her  so  dis- 
tinctly that  some  of  the  most  vivid  images  were  actually 
reflected  on  her  retina,  this  little  imp  contrived  at  every  op- 
portunity, at  every  pause  in  the  procession  of  incongruous 
images,  to  hold  up  the  face  of  one  man  before  her,  and 
grin  from  behind  it  —  the  face  of  the  man  whom  she 
wished  she  had  never  seen,  whom  she  hated,  and  wished 
dead. 

Why  should  she  hate  him  and  wish  him  dead  ?  Because 
she  knew  she  was  going  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  did 
not  yet  actually  realise  that  she  had.  And  she  had  teased 
Colonel  Hilton  until,  quite  unconsciously  on  his  part  and 
on  hers,  he  had  given  her  three  or  four  deep  stabs  in  the 
heart.  He  had  spoken  so  dreadfully  of  this  man. 

At  last  these  brain  phantasmagoria  grew  so  exceeding 
incongruous  that  she  began  to  hope  she  was  asleep,  but 
only  found  that  she  was  not  by  watching  the  dull  silvered 
light  of  the  moon  upon  her  window-blinds.  At  last  it 
came  like  a  dim  grey  cloud.  The  last  feeling  of  outward 
sensation  was  a  happy  weariness  upon  her  eyelids,  which 
drooped  and  drooped  till  they  opened  no  more.  Then 
the  images  were  as  incongruous  as  ever,  but  their  incon- 
gruity was  no  longer  felt.  She  had  passed  into  the  land 
where  incongruity  becomes  logical,  nay,  commonplace. 
There  was  the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman  lying  in  a  bed, 
with  no  outward  signs  of  vitality  except  a  gentle  heaving 
at  the  breast ;  but  where  that  woman  was  for  the  next  two 
hours  I  don't  know,  and  none  of  the  authors  I  have  con- 
sulted seem  able  to  tell  me. 

"  Easier  to  prove  the  existence  of  spirit  than  to  prove 
the  existence  of  matter  ?  "  I  should  rather  think  it  was ! 

The  appearance  of  a  very  commonplace  maid,  very 
sleepy,  and  in  reality  very  cross,  although  making  a  praise- 
worthy effort  to  look  good-humoured,  with  a  candle  and  a 
jug  of  warm  water  at  seven  o'clock  on  a  cold  November 
morning,  acts  as  a  foil  for  this  sort  of  thing.  I  deny  the 
charge  of  bathos,  or  of  an  ad  captandum  contrast.  If 

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life  had  not  perpetually  these  commonplace  turns,  we 
should  wander  sentimentally  through  this  life  with  Shel- 
ley, Byron,  and  Heine,  behowing  the  state  of  a  world 
which  we  have  never  raised  a  finger  to  mend.  Thank 
Heaven !  we  have  got  out  of  that  sort  of  thing  now. 
From  the  Saturday  Review  down  to  the  '  Tiser,  every  man 
has  got  his  shoulder  honestly  to  the  wheel.  Where  they 
are  going  to  shove  us  to  is  a  question  which  has  all  the 
pleasures  of  profound  uncertainty. 

If  ever  there  was  a  young  lady  in  an  unsentimental — 
not  to  say  cross — frame  of  mind,  it  was  Laura  on  that 
November  morning.  If  ever  there  was  a  young  lady  who 
wondered  why  on  earth  that  idiot  of  a  girl  couldn't  have 
had  the  tact  to  oversleep  herself,  or  to  say  that  she  (Laura) 
was  ill,  it  was  Laura.  If  ever  there  was  a  young  lady  who 
thought  that  foxhunting  could  only  yield  to  the  national 
game  of  cricket,  as  a  gigantic  and  intolerable  humbug,  it 
was  Laura. 

It  was  only  duty,  or  the  habit  of  duty,  which  made  her 
get  up  at  all.  Her  father  would  miss  her, — 

"  And  still  her  sire  the  wine  would  chide, 
If  it  was  not  filled  by  Rosabel" 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  get  up  early  of  a  morning  for  the 
sake  of  other  folks.  The  kindest  and  least  cynical  of  men 
said  that  getting-up  early  made  you  conceited  all  the  morn- 
ing, and  sleepy  all  the  afternoon,  but  that  is  scarcely  fair. 
She  found  her  reward  quickly.  The  dark  nonsensical  wak- 
ing dreams  of  the  night  were  gone,  and  her  temper  had 
come  back.  While  her  maid  was  doing  her  hair,  she  was 
so  far  herself  as  to  ask,  "  What  sort  of  morning  is  it, 
Eliza  ?  " 

"  A  bittiful  scenting  morning,  Miss.  You've  only  got 
to  put  your  nose  out  of  doors  to  see  it,"  said  Susan,  who 
was  the  huntsman's  daughter.  "  They  meets  to  Wink- 
worthy,  don't  'em,  Miss  ?  " 

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"  Yes  ;  and  I  suppose  we  shall  go  straight  for  the  moors 
and  get  home  about  midnight.  I  don't  feel  up  to  a  long 
run.  I  wish  we  met  nearer  home." 

Her  father  was  helping  himself  to  tongue  at  the  side- 
board when  she  got  into  the  breakfast-room.  "  My  dar- 
ling," he  said,  "  I  don't  want  to  startle  you,  but  I  forgot 
to  speak  to  you  last  night,  I  want  you  to  ride  '  The  Elk  ' 
to-day.  Are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"Not  I,"  laughed  Laura;  "but  why?  Has  he  ever 
carried  a  lady  ?  " 

"  He  has  carried  a  lady.  Colonel  Seymour  warranted 
him  to  do  so,  and  Hammersley  has  been  riding  him  with 
a  cloth,  and  pronounced  him  perfect.  The  reason  I  want 
you  to  ride  him  is  that,  as  Hammersley  pointed  out,  Witch- 
craft is  not  up  to  your  weight  in  those  heavy  upland  clays. 
I  think  he  is  right." 

"  That  settles  the  matter,"  said  Laura.  "  If  our  new 
lord  and  master  has  issued  his  orders  that  I  am  to  ride 
'  The  Elk  '  I  submit,  of  course.  Have  you  made  any  ar- 
rangements for  getting  me  on  to  the  top  of  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  Charles  ;  "  Lord  Hatterleigh  is  going  to 
hoist  you  on  from  the  top  of  a  pair  of  steps." 

"  And  if  I  get  thrown  ?  " 

"  If  you  get  thrown,  you  must  drive  him  against  an  eight- 
foot  stone-wall,  and  get  up  on  to  him  from  that,  in  the 
best  way  you  can." 

And  so  they  laughed  away  over  their  breakfast,  and 
were  happy,  and  Laura's  long  night  was  as  though  it  had 
never  been. 

This  horse  "  The  Elk  "  was  a  character  in  his  way,  and 
in  consequence  of  what  happened  afterwards,  is  still  re- 
membered well  in  the  family.  His  height  was  eighteen 
hands  and  a  trifle,  his  colour  very  light  chestnut,  his  tem- 
per that  of  a  Palmerston  :  not  a  very  handsome  horse — no 
concentration  of  vast  speed,  beauty,  and  mad  vitality,  like 
"  Lord  Clicfden  ;  "  a  horse  with  the  forehand  of  "  Fish- 
erman," with  Barclay  and  Perkins'  quarters,  and  the  gas- 

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kins  of  "  Umpire  : "  a  great  deal  more  like  William  Po- 
cock  than  like  Robert  Coombes — a  great  deal  more  like 
Thomas  King  than  Thomas  Sayers ;  a  vast  sweet-tem- 
pered horse,  whose  speed  and  staying  qualities  were  like 
the  military  excellence  of  the  British  and  American  ar- 
mies, requiring  time  to  show  them,  but  when  once  shown, 
amazing  :  an  elephantine,  clumsy,  Teutonic  sort  of  beast, 
with  his  shoulders  sloped  back  to  his  girth,  and  his  ribs 
back  to  his  flank  :  nothing  Norman  about  him  at  all,  ex- 
cept a  beautiful  thin  arched  neck,  and  a  little  nervous 
head ;  out  of  which,  however,  gleamed  a  large,  specula- 
tive, kindly,  and  most  thoroughly  Teutonic  eye. 

Sir  Charles  refused  five  hundred  guineas  for  him.  His 
early  history  is  extremely  obscure,  merely,  I  think,  legen- 
dary. If  he  was  ever  in  the  service  of  Messrs.  Chaplin 
and  Home,  how  did  he  get  to  Dublin  ?  —  though  it  is 
equally  certain  that  he  was  never  bred,  and  most  certainly 
never  broken,  in  Ireland.  Even  his  temper  would  never 
have  stood  an  Irish  breaking.  After  what  I  have  said,  it 
will  be  evident  that  "  The  Elk's  "  pedigree  was  still  more 
obscure  than  "  The  Elk's  "  education. 

He  first  made  his  appearance  in  civilised  society  at  Plym- 
outh. Haskerton,  of  Bear  Down,  who  stood  six-feet- 
two  in  his  stockings,  and  weighed  nineteen  stone,  married 
a  Scotch  lady,  who  was  six  feet  in  her  stockings,  and 
weighed,  say,  twelve.  They  had  a  big  baby,  height  and 
weight  unknown,  purchased  a  six-foot  groom  out  of  a 
dragoon  regiment,  a  pair  of  eighteen-hand  horses,  of 
which  "  The  Elk  "  was  one,  and  had  the  biggest  phaeton 
built  that  old  Long  Acre  had  ever  turned  out ;  and  with 
this  elephantine  equipage  used  to  charge  up-and-down  the 
roads  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Plymouth,  to  the  terror  of 
the  peaceable  inhabitants. 

"  Talk  to  me  about  the  decadence  of  Englishmen  !  " 
said  Sir  Peckwich  Downes  to  Lady  Southmolton  on  one 
occasion.  "  Why,  if  Haskerton,  with  those  horses,  that 
wife,  that  phaeton,  that  groom,  and  that  baby,  were  to 

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charge  full-speed  against  the  whole  French  army,  they 
would  fly  like  sheep  !  " 

Lady  Southmolton  was  obliged  to  allow  that  such  a 
thing  was  very  probable.  She  herself  was  possessed  of 
the  hereditary  courage  of  an  Englishwoman  ;  yet  whenever 
she,  in  her  pony-carriage,  met  this  terrific  engine  of  war, 
guided  by  Haskerton  of  Bear  Down,  in  a  narrow  lane,  she 
always  (to  use  yachting  slang)  put  her  helm  down,  took  a 
strong  pull  on  the  starboard  rein,  got  into  the  ditch,  and 
remained  there,  bowing  like  a  Limoges  china  figure,  until 
the  terrible  Squire,  baby  and  all,  had  raged  on  past  her 
like  a  cyclone. 

Sir  Charles  had  looked  "  The  Elk  "  over  ;  had  offered 
Haskerton  another  horse  of  the  same  size,  and  ten  pounds. 
Haskerton  didn't  see  his  way  to  the  ten  pounds — rather 
thought  the  ten  pounds  should  go  the  other  way ;  thought 
Sir  Charles  wrong  about  the  horse ;  but  still  Sir  Charles 
said  he  was  never  wrong  about  a  horse,  and  so  the  horse 
was  sent  home. 

And  now  Laura  found  herself  mounted  on  his  vast  car- 
cass, declaring  she  should  roll  off,  and  making  the  dull 
misty  morning  beautiful  with  her  ringing  laughter. 

It  was  a  very  dull  morning,  with  a  slow-sucking  wind 
from  the  southward.  There  was  no  fog  on  the  lower 
country,  but  after  they  had  risen  about  100  feet  the  trees 
began  to  drop,  and  they  were  enveloped  in  the  mist. 
Sometimes  it  would  lift  and  brighten,  and  rise  to  higher 
elevations  as  the  day  went  on  ;  but  it  was  a  dull  melan- 
choly day  to  all  non-foxhunting  mortals,  but  a  bright  one 
enough  to  Laura  and  her  father.  They  had  one  another ; 
all  the  world  was  behind  them,  and  a  day's  sweet  enjoy- 
ment before. 

As  they  shogged  on  comfortably  together  they  came 
round  the  turn  of  a  lane,  and  lo  !  a  gleam  of  white  and  a 
forest  of  waving  tails  ;  in  another  moment  the  hounds  had 
seen  their  master,  had  rushed  forward  to  meet  him,  and 
were  crowding  joyously  around.  A  pleasant  sight  always, 

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as  I  remember  it,  was  the  meeting  of  hounds  and  master 
in  the  fresh  morning. 

The  approach  to  Winkworthy  was  through  ground 
which  was  not  yet  reclaimed  from  its  original  state,  al- 
though rich  and  cultivable  ;  heavy  yellow  clay,  with  forest 
of  oak  and  holly  ;  and  passing  along  through  the  dim 
aisles  of  it,  they  came  at  last  on  the  breezy  hill  of  Wink- 
worthy,  and  a  few  faithful  ones  who  faced  the  dark  morn- 
ing and  the  distant  meet. 

Sir  Charles  was  the  tallest  man  there ;  his  very  lean 
spare  figure  and  his  broad  shoulders  looked  very  well  on 
horseback,  not  to  mention  his  leg,  which  he  and  others 
thought  to  be  the  finest  leg  in  Devonshire,  and  which  was 
certainly  as  vi&\\-dressed  a  leg  as  any  in  that  county  or 
any  other  : — altogether  a  most  gallant- looking  gentleman, 
as  straight  as  a  dart. 

Dickson,  the  attorney  from  Totridge,  who  had  ridden 
up  and  looked  keenly  at  him,  was  speaking  to  him  when 
the  hounds  were  put  in  ;  but  Laura  called  him  away,  and 
they  took  their  places,  with  three  or  four  other  hard-goers, 
at  the  upper  corner  of  the  little  patch  of  gorse.  The  rest 
of  the  field  were  not  in  order — were  talking,  smoking,  and 
so  on  ;  but  our  friends  knew  what  they  were  about.  The 
hounds  were  no  sooner  in  than  they  were  out  again  on  the 
other  side,  with  a  long-legged  mountain  fox  before  them, 
and  going  fifteen  miles  an  hour  straight  for  the  moor. 

As  soon  as  Laura  got  used  to  the  elephantine  stride  of 
"  The  Elk,"  she  found  that  she  was  away  from  the  others, 
with  only  her  father  and  the  huntsman  alongside  of  her, 
and  Hammersley,  who  had  kept  out  of  her  sight  till  now, 
sailing  gallantly  on  in  front,  showing  them  the  way.  He 
could  ride,  there  was  no  doubt  of  that ;  and  a  man  master 
of  his  horse,  going  hard,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
sights  in  the  world.  Hammersley  knew  that  as  well  as 
you  or  I. 

Laura  went  storming  along,  enjoying  herself  thoroughly. 
They  were  rapidly  approaching  the  moor,  when,  after 

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leaping  some  not  very  difficult  timber,  she  missed  her 
father.  He  had  come  to  grief,  and  was  chasing  his  horse 
into  a  corner  of  the  stone  wall,  so  there  was  nothing 
much  the  matter  with  him.  And  Laura  went  on,  the 
more  particularly  as  it  was  doubtful  whether  she  could 
have  pulled  Elk  with  any  great  success.  She  had  just  be- 
gun to  realise  that  she  was  away  alone  with  Hammersley, 
when  they  were  up  and  out  on  the  moor,  and  into  a  dense 
mist ;  and  he  had  drawn  back  and  was  riding  nearer  to 
her,  as  was  absolutely  necessary. 

How  far  they  went  she  did  not  know  then.  The  ground 
was  tolerably  smooth — heather  with  very  little  rock — and 
they  went  fast,  just  keeping  sight  of  the  hounds.  They 
were  going  along  a  ridge,  for  Laura  saw,  first  on  one  side 
and  then  on  the  other,  a  precipitous  slope  below  her,  with 
hanging  cliffs  festooned  by  the  mist — saw  and  did  not 
like  it. 

At  last,  suddenly,  Hammersley  held  up  his  hand  and 
shouted  to  her  to  stop.  She  pulled  up  in  time,  but  he, 
watching  her,  was  too  late.  They  had  come  suddenly  on 
a  loose  broken  slope  of  weatherworn  granite  boulders 
among  the  heather,  and  he  had  ridden  on  to  it  before  he 
could  pull  up.  There  was  a  fierce  struggling  clatter  for 
half  a  minute,  and  then  horse  and  man  came  crashing  down 
together  among  the  cruel  pitiless  rocks. 

He  was  thrown  clear  of  his  horse,  and  fell  partly  behind 
a  small  rock,  so  that  she  could  only  see  his  leg.  At  first 
the  knee  was  raised,  but  after  a  moment  it  fell  over  on  its 
side  and  remained  still.  She  began  to  get  frightened. 
"  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  she  cried  out ;  but  there  was  no  answer, 
he  lay  quite  still.  Around  in  the  mist  she  could  only  hear 
the  faint  cry  of  the  running  hounds  getting  fainter  each 
moment,  and  the  trickling  of  some  hidden  runnel  beneath 
the  stones  hard  by.  She  cried  for  help — there  was  but  lit- 
tle chance  of  that.  Her  voice  only  echoed  among  the 
rocks  for  an  instant — after  that  silence  again,  and  she  began 
to  feel  that  she  was  alone  with  Death  ! 

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Dead  or  alive,  she  must  go  to  him  ;  the  higher  law  told 
her  that.  She  had  never  seen  death  yet,  but  she  must  look 
on  him  for  the  first  time,  now,  here,  in  the  darkened  face 
of  that  man — of  that  man  of  all  others !  She  slipped  from 
her  horse,  and  scrambled  towards  him. 

Was  this  death,  this  loose  attitude  of  all  the  limbs,  this 
quiet  resting  of  the  cheek  upon  the  arm  ?  If  so  it  was 
hardly  terrible,  nay,  somewhat  beautiful  !  But  it  was  not 
death;  for  the  head  shifted,  the  soul  came  back,  and  a 
sharp  cry  told  that  pain  had  returned  with  consciousness. 

Laura's  face  flushed  up  with  sheer  honest  joy.  She 
would  have  felt  the  same  glad  bound  at  her  heart,  had  he 
who  was  lying  before  her  been  the  merest  old  lazar  which 
lay  by  the  roadside.  Our  hatred  of  death  is  so  ingrained 
into  our  nature,  as  the  greatest  and  most  terrible  of  evils, 
that  we  rejoice  beyond  measure  when  his  threatened  dark- 
ness passes  away  from  the  most  worthless  face,  and  leaves 
the  light  of  life  flickering  there  again,  however  foul  and 
worthless  that  light  may  be.  Poor  Laura  did  not  know  as 
yet  how  precious  this  life  was  to  get  to  her !  It  was  only 
in  the  reaction  of  her  terror  that  she  rejoiced  now,  and 
went  innocently  to  his  assistance.  She  was  strong,  and 
she  raised  him  into  an  easier  position.  She  was  knowing, 
to  a  certain  extent,  in  the  way  of  nursing,  and  she  unloosed 
his  neck.  She  was  curious,  and  she  wondered  what  was 
this  thick  gold  chain  about  his  neck,  and  whether  it  was  his 
sweetheart's  portrait  which  hung  so  heavy  from  it  down  on 
his  breast ;  and  she  was  an  artist,  and  she  saw  that  he  was 
very,  very  handsome.  She  raised  her  voice  once  more, 
and  cried  "  Help ! "  three  times,  and  the  circumambient 
mist  and  the  rocky  hollows  around  re-echoed  "  Help!  " 
Poor  child,  she  wanted  it  as  much  as  he  did ;  God  help 
her! 

It  was  not  long  before  "  The  Elk,"  who  had  been  ele- 
phantinely  grazing,  raised  his  head  and  whinnied.  He  had 
heard,  quicker  than  could  she,  swift  horses'  feet  brushing 
through  the  heather.  When  she  caught  the  sound  she 

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cried,  "  Pull  up,  we  have  had  an  accident.  Father  !  is  that 
you  ?  "  She  heard  the  approaching  horse  pass  into  a  walk, 
and  then  out  of  the  mist  came  not  her  father  but  Tom 
Squire,  the  old  huntsman. 

He  saw  what  had  happened  directly.  He  jumped  from 
his  horse  and  came  towards  them,  with  his  little  bright 
terrier  eyes  sparkling  from  one  to  the  other.  "  Is  he 
dead  ?  "  he  said  first,  and  then  he  took  off  his  cap.  "  Go 
and  get  it  full  of  water,  Miss.  Your  father  is  close  behind. 
Quick !  " 

She  went,  and  as  she  came  back  she  heard  her  father 
pricking  on  towards  them,  and  called  on  him  to  draw  rein. 
What  did  she  see  ?  The  old  huntsman  bending  down 
over  the  hurt  man,  moving  his  hair  from  his  eyes,  and  using 
such  endearments  towards  him  as  a  father  uses  towards  a 
favourite  son  ;  and  the  wounded  man  smiling  back  into  his 
face  with  a  patronising  kindly  confidence,  which  puzzled 
her  exceedingly. 

Her  father  came  up,  and  they  took  stock  of  the  disaster. 
The  man  was  only  stunned,  and  his  collar-bone  put  out, 
and  he  could  ride  home  with  assistance.  Colonel  Hilton 
and  Sir  Charles'  second  horseman  came  next.  Colonel 
Hilton  cleverly  tied  him  up  in  pockethandkerchiefs,  and  he 
was  sent  home  on  the  second  horse  with  the  little  groom. 
Others  came  up  then,  and  it  was  determined  to  hunt  the 
hounds,  who  must  be  a  few  miles  off  by  this  time,  and 
make  a  day  of  it. 

So  they  did.  A  glorious  day  they  had  !  Laura  rejected 
with  scorn  the  idea  of  going  home,  was  hoisted  on  "  The 
Elk  "  by  Colonel  Hilton,  and  went  on.  But  all  that  con- 
cerns us  in  that  day  is  this. 

Sir  Charles  and  the  huntsman  rode  first,  Laura  and  the 
Colonel  behind.  The  Colonel  was  in  one  of  his  compli- 
mentary humours  again,  for  his  theory  was  that,  although 
women  kicked  against  that  sort  of  thing,  they  must  like  it, 
and  that  it  told  in  the  long  run.  So  he  and  Laura  (who 
never  could  bear  him  when  he  did  not  contradict  her)  had 

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(if  you  will  let  me  say  so)  fallen  together  by  the  ears — I 
mean  quarrelled — to  that  extent  that  Laura,  after  a  biting 
sarcasm,  not  handed  down  to  us  in  the  family  archives, 
and  therefore  suppliable  by  the  reader's  imagination,  had, 
with  her  riding-whip,  banged  and  thwacked  "  The  Elk  " 
into  a  canter,  and  pushed  on  to  join  her  father  and  the 
huntsman,  leaving  Colonel  Hilton  to  fall  back  on  the  so- 
ciety of  a  talkative  horse-doctor  with  a  grievance  against 
Lieutenant  James. 

As  she  came  up  she  heard  her  father  and  the  huntsman 
talking  together. 

"  Then  you  knew  him  and  liked  him  in  his  youth  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Sir  Charles.  The  best  of  the  bunch,  Sir — the  best 
of  the  bunch  ! " 

"  He  has  not  been  treated  fairly,  say  what  you  will," 
replied  Sir  Charles.  "  Is  there  no  hope  for  mercy  for 
him  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  mercy  there,  Sir  Charles,"  said  the  little 
old  man,  looking  up  at  him.  "  Let  those  who  have  to  ask 
mercy  remember  that." 

Her  father,  she  saw,  turned  sharply  on  the  old  man  as 
he  said  this,  but  he  turned  away  again,  and  rode  on  as  stiff 
and  as  grand  as  ever. 

"  His  is  a  sad  story,"  she  heard  him  say. 

"  A  very,  very  sad  story,  Sir ! — sadder  than  you  dream 
of,"  said  the  huntsman.  And  when  she  came  up  to  them 
they  began  talking  of  where  the  hounds  might  be. 


Chapter  XIV 

THE  only  woman  of  her  own  age  whom  Laura  called 
friend  was  Maria  Huxtable,  the  tenant  of  the  Castle's 
daughter ;  a  tall,  beautiful,  though  somewhat  loud  daughter 
of  Lancashire :  as  handsome  in  person  as  Laura,  as  like 
her  as  she  could  manage  to  be  in  manners,  by  unassisted 

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unguided  imitation,  and  a  still  more  successful  replicat  of 
Laura  in  her  dress,  in  which  particular  a  reproduction  of 
ideas  is  more  mechanical,  and  therefore  more  easy.  The 
only  particular  difference  between  them  seemed  at  first 
sight  to  be,  that  Laura  had  that  trained  far-gazing  look  of 
eye,  the  "  not  speak  till  you're  spoken  to  "  look,  which  is 
mainly  got  by  education  from  a  woman  of  the  world,  or 
by  unconscious  imitation  of  such  ;  and  Maria  Huxtable  had 
not.  Laura  seldom  looked  at  you,  except  so  far  as  was 
necessary  to  fix  your  image  on  her  retina  for  the  purpose 
of  recognition,  until  you  spoke  to  her ;  then  she  could  look 
straight  enough  at  you.  Maria  Huxtable  used  actually  to 
lorgner  you  and,  what  is  more,  everyone  else,  to  that  ex- 
cruciating degree  that  you  were  forced  to  speak  to  her. 
At  a  lawn-party  there  would  be  half  a  dozen  young  coun- 
try gentlemen  round  Maria  Huxtable,  leaning  on  their 
mallets,  and  neglecting  their  game,  only  on  account  of 
those  eyes  ;  while  Laura,  in  solitary  imperial  state,  would 
be  standing  alone,  waiting  until  it  should  please  them  to 
go  on. 

Noticeable  to  Maria  the  good-natured  was  this :  that  the 
moment  a  field-officer,  or  naval  man  of  any  mark,  or  dandy 
lawyer  on  circuit,  or  any  man  who,  as  those  benighted 
savages  down  there  would  say,  had  "  been  in  London," 
appeared  they  made  up  to  Laura  immediately,  and  got 
amazingly  intimate  with  her.  On  the  other  hand,  Maria 
was  very  much  amused  by  noticing  that  six  young  Oxford 
Christchurch  men,  down  in  these  parts  on  a  reading-party, 
used  at  these  croquet  rabbles  to  sneak  past  Laura  with  all 
the  grace  and  self-possession  which  young  Englishmen 
usually  display  on  similar  occasions.  The  two  were 
tenderly  devoted  to  one  another,  and  their  affection  was 
of  the  most  ostentatious  kind,  far  surpassing  any  demon- 
strations ever  made  towards  such  unimportant  people  as 
lovers.  Previous  to  any  temporary  separation  they  used 
to  spend  every  precious  hour  with  one  another ;  during  it 
they  corresponded  constantly,  and  were  frantically  fever- 

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ishly  eager  to  rejoin  one  another  at  the  first  possible  mo- 
ment. Now  a  permanent  separation  was  coming  on  they 
spent  most  of  their  time  together. 

"  I  will  come  across  to  the  Castle  to-morrow,  dearest 
Maria,"  said  Laura  one  evening.  "  I  will  come  in  the 
morning ;  the  tide  will  be  low  at  ten,  and  James  can  push 
me  across  in  the  dingy." 

"  My  sweetest  Laura,"  said  Maria,  "  I  shall  be  out  all 
day." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  then  ?  "  asked  Laura,  sur- 
prised at  this  sudden  announcement. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  am  at  papa's  orders  for  the  day ; 
that  is  all." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Laura  should  stay  at  home  on 
that  day,  but  the  fates  ordained  otherwise.  The  next 
morning  a  box  arrived  from  London,  containing  a  beautiful 
parting  present  for  dear  Maria.  How  nice  it  would  be  to 
go  and  put  it  on  her  table  in  her  absence,  or  take  the 
chance  of  catching  her !  She  delayed  till  evening  in  the 
hope  that  Maria  would  come  home,  and  then  she  went. 

She  called  one  of  the  gardeners,  who  followed  her  down 
over  the  sands,  and  put  her  across  the  little  channel  of  the 
river  which  was  left  at  low  tide.  Climbing  a  steep  path, 
partly  cut  into  steps,  up  the  low  red  cliff,  she  soon  came 
to  the  platform  above  and  stood  before  the  Castle,  in  the 
Castle  grounds,  with  the  great  keep  hanging  dark  aloft. 

She  paused  for  an  instant,  to  look  back  across  the  river 
at  the  Court  embosomed  in  trees,  standing  on  its  pro- 
montory among  the  yellow  sea-sands,  and  to  think  how 
many  happy  hours  she  had  spent  with  Maria  under  the 
shadow  of  this  keep  where  she  stood,  all  of  which  had 
come  to  an  end  for  ever  !  The  Castle  would  be  closed  to 
her  when  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  came. 

She  let  herself  in  by  a  postern,  and  passing  through 
many  long  dark  pleasant  rooms,  and  meeting  no  one,  be- 
gan to  climb  the  stairs  towards  the  second  storey  of  the 
keep,  where  Maria  had  romantically  made  her  bower ;  her 

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hand  was  on  the  door-handle,  when  she  started  and  drew 
back,  for  she  heard  Hammersley's  voice  on  the  other  side 
of  the  door. 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it ;  in  another  moment  his  ques- 
tion, put  in  an  easy  tone,  to  Mr.  Huxtable  apparently,  was 
answered  by  that  gentleman's  voice. 

She  determined  to  satisfy  her  curiosity  at  once  without 
further  listening,  and  went  in.  The  room  took  up  the 
whole  of  that  floor  of  the  keep,  and  was  furnished  with 
only  four  narrow  windows,  calculated  to  avoid  archery 
more  than  to  give  light — one  on  each  side.  She  saw  the 
old  prospects  through  each  of  them,  partly  with  her  out- 
ward eye,  and  partly  in  her  memory,  at  one  glance  round. 
On  the  north  the  purple  moor ;  on  the  south  the  grey  sea 
getting  greyer,  as  night  settled  down  ;  to  the  east  the  Court, 
on  its  terraces,  and  the  wide  sand  all  around,  with  the  tide 
crawling  up  ;  and  to  the  west  the  sunset,  which  threw  the 
shadow  of  this  keep  towards  her  home.  And  now  be- 
tween her  and  the  sunset  was  another  shadow,  the  shadow 
of  a  man  who  sat  in  the  window,  talking  to  Huxtable — of 
a  man  she  had  never  seen,  and  yet  who  had  been  speaking 
with  Hammersley's  voice. 

Mr.  Huxtable  hurriedly  said,  "  Oh,  here  is  Maria !  Come 
in,  my  love;  I  will  be  back  directly,"  and  hurried  past  her 
without  recognition  or  explanation.  Laura  saw  that  he 
had  mistaken  her  for  Maria,  and  was  determined  to  satisfy 
her  curiosity  by  a  view  of  this  man  with  the  other  man's 
voice.  She  therefore  sat  down  in  the  half-darkness,  and 
allowed  good  Mr.  Huxtable  to  go  blundering  down  the 
stone  stairs  in  error. 

The  reader  knows  more  than  poor  Laura  did,  and  there- 
fore can  guess  who  this  man  was,  left  with  her  here  in  semi- 
darkness,  and  why  his  voice  was  so  like  Hammersley's. 
Laura  was  in  deep  curiosity.  There  was  no  mistake 
about  the  similarity  of  the  voice,  however ;  for  when  he 
spoke  to  her,  she  could  hardly  help  starting,  and  stared 
keenly  into  the  dusk  to  see  what  he  was  like,  without  suc- 

65 


Leighton  Court 

cess.  He  leaned  against  the  western  window,  and  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her. 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Huxtable,  for  letting  me 
come  in  here.  I  had  an  object.  I  never  pay  compli- 
ments, or  I  should  say  that  I  was  sorry  I  was  going  to 
turn  you  out  of  this  room,  whereas  I  am  glad." 

Laura's  voice  was  a  wonderfully  well-trained  one.  She 
was  more  careful  than  usual  with  it  as  she  replied  out  of 
the  gloom — 

"  I  am  not  Miss  Huxtabie ;  I  am  only  Miss  Huxtable's 
friend." 

"  Has  Miss  Huxtable  made  friends  with  a  lady,  then  ?  On 
what  false  pretences  ?  My  ear  never  deceives  me,  though 
my  eyes  are  bad.  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  mistake." 

Laura  was  somewhat  indignant  for  her  friend,  and 
thought  the  compliment  coarse,  or  would  have  thought  so 
but  for  her  education.  But  she  knew  in  a  moment,  from 
the  way  in  which  he  spoke,  that  she  was  speaking  to  what 
her  mother  and  grandmother  had  taught  her  to  call  a 
gentleman.  And  she  spoke  accordingly,  "  refusing,"  as 
Colonel  Hilton  might  have  said,  the  subject  of  Laura 
Seckerton,  and  coming  into  action  with  her  other  wing 
somewhat  spitefully,  fancying  somehow  that  this  man  was 
some  led  captain  of  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  instead  of  being  the 
man  himself,  as  of  course  it  was.  I  have  shown  you  how 
naughty  she  could  be ;  on  this  occasion  she  was  rather 
naughtier  than  usual — 

"  The  Huxtables  are  by  far  the  nicest  people  about  here. 
The  whole  county  will  miss  them.  It  will  be  a  sad 
change  from  them  to  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  !  " 

"  What  has  he  been  doing,  then  ?  "  said  the  man  in  the 
dark. 

"  Getting  his  estate  right,"  replied  Laura ;  "  more's  the 
pity ;  a  dreadful  crime  in  these  parts,  where  no  one  wants 
him.  From  all  accounts  it  will  be  an  evil  day  for  the 
poor  when  these  good  Huxtables  go,  and  we  have  an  ex- 
change." 

66 


Leighton  Court 

"  A  very  bad  exchange,  you  think  ?  " 

"  A  very  bad  one  indeed,  I  fear  !  " 

"  Then,  you  have  heard  no  good  of  Sir  Harry  ?  " 

"  No  good  whatever." 

"  Much  harm  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear  no,  not  the  least.  Have  you  ever  seen  the 
view  out  of  these  windows  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  well,"  said  the  man  in  the  dark.  "  If 
I  were  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  I  would  take  this  room  as  my 
own.  He  was  born  in  this  room,  you  know.  And  I 
would  sit  here  every  day,  summer  and  winter,  and  I  would 
look  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  and  I  would  say, — 
"  Before  I  die,  every  acre,  from  the  moor  to  the  sea,  from 
the  promontory  westward  to  the  sands  eastward,  shall  be 
mine."  I  would  sit  in  this  old  robber-tower,  and  say  to 
myself,  "  You  are  the  first  of  your  name  for  a  thousand 
years  who  has  been  forced  to  lend  your  castle  for  a  pit- 
tance to  a  Manchester  radical,  a  man  who  would  destroy 
your  order.  Make  war  against  his  order  in  return.  They 
have  fought  for  their  trade.  Buy  until  there  is  no  room 
in  the  land,  until  the  middle  class  hereabouts  are  your 
creatures.  The  little  freeholders  are  dropping  like  rotten 
pears  under  free-trade.  Pick  them  up,  and  make  yourself 
a  Peer.' " 

Laura  was  amused  and  interested  by  this  singular  confi- 
dence from  the  unknown.  She  went  about  with  him  at  once. 

"  Cursed  be  they  that  add  house  to  house,  and  field  to 
field  !  you  know,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  I  would  risk  the  curse,  if  I  could  get  the  land  ; 
and  so  would  you,  and  so  would  any  of  us.  Let's  have 
none  of  that  now,  come  !  " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said ;  "  but  it  would  be  an 
awkward  thing  for  some  of  us — for  us  in  particular — if  Sir 
Harry  Poyntz  were  wicked  enough  to  do  such  a  thing  !  " 

"  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  is  wicked  enough  to  do  anything," 
he  replied.  "  I  am  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  and  so  I  ought  to 
know." 

67 


Leighton  Court 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Laura  to  herself.  "  Have  I  made  your  ears 
tingle  for  you,  my  gentleman  ?  "  and  began  trying  to  re- 
member what  she  had  said.  Sir  Harry  thought  he  had 
"  shut  her  up,"  but  he  had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  She 
was  only  longing  to  look  on  what  should  be,  by  all  ac- 
counts, the  wickedest,  meanest,  most  worthless  face  that 
ever  troubled  this  unhappy  earth.  She  sat  in  the  dark, 
trying  to  picture  it  to  herself — trying  to  anticipate  the  real- 
ity, with  the  same  feeling  which  makes  men  madly  bet — 
not  from  avarice,  but  as  a  proof  of  sagacity — on  some 
sporting  event  which  will  be  decided  in  the  next  three 
minutes.  She  could  see  that  he  was  tall,  and  she  pictured 
him  satanic :  a  dark  melancholic  man,  with  sloping  eye- 
brows, wicked  little  eyes,  and  an  upward  curl  at  the  corner 
of  his  mouth  ;  the  man  she  knew  so  well  by  Cruikshank's 
art ;  the  swaggering  fiendish  cavalier  who  has  come  home 
from  the  Spanish  main,  and  who  is  no  less  than  the  fiend 
himself ;  a  man  with  a  wicked  leer  for  a  woman,  and  a 
twopenny-halfpenny,  who-are-you,  Haymarket  scowl  for  a 
man.  As  she  looked  at  him  in  the  darkness,  this  fanciful 
image  grew  on  her  imagination  till  it  was  nearly  reflected 
on  her  retina. 

Huxtable,  coming  in  with  a  candle,  upset  all  her  fine 
theories.  She  saw,  instead  of  her  corsair,  a  bland,  fat, 
flabby,  lymphatic  man,  with  a  flat  pale  blue  eye,  with  less 
depth  in  it  than  a  wafer ;  who  was  too  fat  for  his  apparent 
age ;  a  man  who  had  apparently,  by  some  mistake  in  Nat- 
ure's cookery,  been  boiled  instead  of  roasted  ;  a  man  who 
would  not  even  grill  well,  but  would  remain  mere  flabby 
meat,  with  a  coating  of  brown.  He  was  so  utterly  unlike 
what  she  had  thought,  that  she  forgot  Hannah  More  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  burst  out  laughing.  But  the 
nasty,  shallow,  light-blue,  dangerous  eye  was  steadily  on 
hers,  with  a  look  of  power  too ;  and  she  stopped  laughing. 

I  think,  if  the  reader  will  allow  me,  that  I  will  leave  to 
her  or  his  imagination,  to  conceive  good  Huxtable's  fuss 
when  he  came  back  with  the  candle,  and  found  that  he 

68 


Leighton  Court 

had  left  not  Maria  but  Laura  alone  with  Sir  Harry  Poyntz ; 
and  his  explanations,  and  the  grand  kootooing,  and  bow- 
ing and  scraping,  the  utter  ignoring  of  all  passages  of 
arms  in  the  dark,  which  went  on  after  Laura  and  Sir 
Harry  were  introduced  to  one  another,  may  be  also  omit- 
ted with  advantage,  in  order  to  get  on  to  what  is  more  in- 
teresting. 


Chapter  XV 

BELOW  Laura  was  pounced  upon  by  Maria,  who  to  her 
surprise,  late  as  it  was,  with  a  rising  tide,  insisted  on  com- 
ing home  with  her.  There  was  not  the  slightest  possible 
danger  in  crossing  the  Wysclith  at  any  time  of  night,  so 
Laura  let  her  come. 

Laura  called  her  a  traitor  and  a  storyteller  for  saying  she 
was  out  when  she  was  not,  for  the  sake  of  preventing  a 
meeting  between  her  and  Sir  Harry  Poyntz.  Maria  said 
she  had  only  done  exactly  what  her  father  had  told  her, 
and  had  fully  believed  that  she  should  be  out ;  that  Sir 
Harry  Poyntz  had  come  one  single  day  on  business,  and 
did  not  wish  to  be  recognised. 

But  when  they  were  alone  on  the  Court  side  of  the 
river,  Maria  changed  the  conversation,  and  became  very 
serious. 

"  Laura,  I  want  to  ask  a  question,  and  I  am  frightened." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?  " 

"  Your  answer.  What  do  you  think  of  Sir  Harry 
Poyntz  ?  " 

"  Think  of  him  ?  What  I  always  have  ever  since  I 
played  with  him  as  a  child.  And  now  I  have  seen  him 
again,  I  must  say  that  his  face  does  not  belie  his  charac- 
ter, but  is  the  most  false,  mean,  and  cruel  one  I  ever  saw ! " 

Maria  gave  a  little  cry,  and  laid  her  hand  on  Laura's 
mouth — 

"Oh,  Laura,  Laura !    No,  no !    For  my  sake,  no  I  " 
69 


Leighton  Court 

"  What  have  you  to  do  with  the  man  ?  Why  should  I 
not  say  what  I  please  about  him  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  going  to  marry  him,  I  believe.  Oh  !  do 
have  mercy  on  me,  and  make  the  best  of  him." 

"  Marry  him  !    Where  have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  North,  many  times." 

"  Do  you  love  him  ?  " 

"Yes  —  yes,  of  course!  It's  a  family  arrangement, 
and  he  has  been  shamefully  illused  and  misrepresented, 
and " 

"  He  has  been  nothing  of  the  kind,  Maria.  You  know 
you  are  ashamed  of  what  you  are  doing,  or  you  would 
have  told  me  of  it  before.  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  is  a  thor- 
oughly worthless  person.  Men  wonder  how  it  is  that  his 
name  is  kept  on  the  books  of  his  clubs — a  man  whom  my 
father  would  never  allow  to  darken  his  doors  for  one  in- 
stant. You  don't  love  him,  and  you  know  you  don't. 
You  have  withheld  your  confidence  from  me  in  this  man- 
ner, not  in  the  most  friendly  way,  and  therefore  I  cannot 
tell  at  all  what  is  urging  you  on  to  this  most  miserable 
folly.  If  it  is  that  you  think  it  a  fine  thing  to  be  Lady 
Poyntz,  and  live  at  the  Castle,  I  can  assure  you  that  you 
had  ten  thousand  times  better  be  plain  Mrs.  Hilton.  And 
you  could  be  Mrs.  Hilton  to-morrow  ;  I  know  that  as  well 
as  anyone.  I  have  taught  him  to  hate  me  like  poison. 
He  don't  suit  me,  and  I  have  let  him  see  it  most  unmis- 
takably. But  Harry  Poyntz— good  heavens  !  " 

The  shoe  pinched  a  little  tight  here,  it  seemed.  Laura 
soon  found  what  she  had  done  with  that  tongue  of  hers. 
Poor  Maria  turned  upon  her  immediately.  That  one 
name  had  roused  her  to  anger  ;  she  turned  on  Laura,  and 
Laura  soon  found,  for  the  first  time  too,  that  Maria  had 
naturally  every  whit  as  much  determination  and  strength 
as  she  had  herself,  and  that  at  a  battle-royal  she  was  her 
superior,  using  weapons  which  Laura  had  been  taught  to 
believe  unchivalrous  and  unladylike. 

At  this  point  Maria  Huxtable  lost  her  temper. 

70 


Leighton  Court 

"  Better  be  Mrs.  Hilton  !  "  she  said  furiously.  "  I  have 
no  doubt  you  think  that  I  had  better  take  up  with  him, 
and  marry  the  man  you  encouraged,  until  you  determined 
to  sell  yourself  to  a  titled  booby.  Laura,  you  have  be- 
haved more  wickedly  than  I  thought  it  possible.  I  loved 
that  man,  and  if  you  had  not  come  between  us  I  know  he 
would  have  loved  me.  Loved  me  !  You  hear  what  I  say, 
and  see  if  you  can  sleep  after  it.  I  love  him  now ;  and  I 
am  going  to  marry  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  who  is  all  that  you 
say  and  perhaps  more.  What  fiend  made  you  mention 
him  by  name,  and  drive  me  mad  !  I  could  have  gone  on 
smiling,  and  lying,  and  pretending  I  didn't  hate  you,  if 
you  had  not  brought  his  name  up.  Nay,  I  didn't  know  I 
hated  you  before.  You  must  make  me  know  it,  forsooth. 
You  have  stood  between  that  man  and  me,  and  now, 
when  Lord  Hatterleigh  comes  forward,  you  coolly  recom- 
mend the  man  to  my  attention,  when  it  is  too  late  for  ever ! 
Laura,  you  have  made  an  enemy  of  me,  and  you  will  live 
to  wish  you  were  dead  before  you  had  done  so." 

All  this  was  so  horribly,  ridiculously  untrue,  that  if  poor 
Laura  had  kept  her  temper  she  might  have  cleared  the 
cobwebs  from  the  poor  girl's  eyes,  and  saved  infinite  woe. 
She  was  angry  herself,  however ;  and  one  angry  woman 
going  about  with  another  is  as  vinegar  poured  upon  nitre. 
She  lost  her  temper  now  :  she  turned  on  the  poor  girl  and 
said, — 

"  What  you  have  been  saying  about  me  is  so  very  im- 
pertinent, and  so  ridiculously  false,  that  I  shall  not  con- 
descend to  any  explanation  whatever.  You  have  often 
taken  my  advice  ;  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  offer  it, 
and  it  is  this — that  you  cross  the  river,  go  to  your  bed- 
room, and  pray  to  God  to  forgive  you  your  wickedness." 
And  since  tall  talk  inexorably  leads  to  taller,  and  since  if 
you  begin  talking  big  you  will  say  a  deal  more  than  you 
mean,  she  continued :  "  I  have  done  with  you.  You  told 
me  a  lie  to-day,  in  saying  that  you  were  out.  I  thought 
till  now  it  was  the  first ;  now  I  see  it  is  the  last  of  many — 


Leighton  Court 

the  very  last.  Go  back  across  the  river  to  your  fate.  You 
have  made  your  bed,  and  must  lie  on  it.  Your  servant  is 
waiting  for  you  at  the  steps." 

And  so  they  parted.  Laura  was  only  in  time  to  dress 
for  dinner,  and  very  soon  sailed  into  the  drawing-room, 
looking  very  beautiful,  only  a  little  tired,  as  her  mother 
and  grandmother,  two  of  the  wise  women  of  Gotham, 
could  not  help  remarking. 

Lord  Hatterleigh  was  there,  got  up  carefully,  with  a 
twice-round  white  tie,  looking  as  if  he  was  at  the  meeting 
of  a  Young  Men's  Christian  Association,  and  was  only 
waiting  for  the  chairman's  summons  to  rise  and  make  the 
speech  of  the  evening.  He  looked  at  her  in  what  he  con- 
sidered an  amatory  sort  of  way,  and  tumbled  over  a  foot- 
stool, and  kicked  her  father,  before  he  bowed  himself 
stern-foremost  into  Lady  Emily's  stand  of  camellias. 
There  was  also  Colonel  Hilton,  who  was  dressed  like  a 
box-keeper,  and  might  have  passed  for  one — only  that  his 
clothes  were  so  perfectly  cut,  his  beard  (the  Duke  of  Cam- 
bridge not  having  published  his  order)  was  so  very  long, 
and  his  Victoria  Cross  was  peeping  out  on  the  left  side  of 
his  whiskers.  There  was  Papa,  tall,  grey,  elegant — in 
blue  and  brass  buttons  :  there  was  Mamma,  stout  and  re- 
spectable, yet  with  tvvopennyworth  of  espibglerie  to  carry 
it  off ;  there  was  Grandma,  with  her  waxen  complexion, 
and  her  lace  cap,  looking  as  if  she  was  sitting  there  until 
the  angels  Respectability  and  Routine  came  and  carried 
her  to  heaven,  to  join  Hannah  More  ;  and  here,  in  the 
midst  of  them,  stood  Laura  herself,  with  a  secret  gnawing 
at  her  heart,  which  to  her  was  guilty  and  dreadful.  She 
loved  the  gallant  young  Hammersley,  and  she  knew  it. 
Though  she  said  to  herself  loudly  that  it  was  a  monstrous 
falsehood,  yet  she  knew  it  to  be  true. 

Lord  Hatterleigh  twaddled  on  about  the  Whigs,  that 
incomprehensible  and  undefinable  body,  who  form  the 
staple  of  all  political  talk  and  speculation.  Her  father  dex- 
terously helped  the  turbot,  and  turned  his  graceful  high- 

72 


Leighton  Court 

bred  head  and  face  towards  the  Vicar,  now  and  then  mak- 
ing a  little  mild  fun  with  him  about  the  rest  of  his  dinner 
— this  being  a  Friday,  and  the  Vicar  being  a  ferocious 
high-churchman.  That  preux  chevalier,  Colonel  Hilton, 
flirted  solemnly  and  gracefully  with  Constance  Downes. 
Sir  Peckwich  Downes  beamed  over  his  white  waistcoat 
at  his  fish.  Mamma  and  Grandma  chirruped  and  cackled 
away  as  usual.  Richardson  the  butler,  master  of  the  feast, 
administered  stimulants  according  to  his  will  and  pleasure, 
getting  vexed  with  Sir  Peckwich's  perpetual  growl  of 
"  Sherry !  "  as  showing  want  of  confidence.  There  were 
their  own  three  footmen  in  crimson  plush,  and  Sir  Peck- 
wich's man  in  orange  plush.  Was  there  ever  a  more  re- 
spectable gathering  ? 

Poor  Laura  was  excited  and  upset  this  evening.  It  came 
into  her  head  :  "  What  if  she  should  rise  up  and  tell  them 

all  the  truth,  that  she  was ?  "  She  couldn't  say  it, 

not  to  herself ;  she  could  not  articulate  it  even  to  her  sec- 
ond consciousness,  though  she  knew  it  was  there,  fatally 
sure  enough,  in  her  third  and  innermost  soul.  Suppose 
she  was  to  get  up  and  say,  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am 

in  love  with .  That  way  lies  madness."  What  would 

Lord  Hatterleigh  do  ? — The  Fox-and-North  coalition  was 
nothing  to  this.  Would  her  father  rise  and  curse  her  ? 
Would  Colonel  Hilton's  look  of  distrust  develope  into  a 
look  of  contempt,  and  how  ?  The  footmen  would  "  tehee," 
to  borrow  an  expression  from  Mr.  Carlyle.  As  for  her 
mother  and  grandma,  she  knew  what  they  would  do — or- 
der her  to  her  room.  What  Sir  Peckwich  Downes  would 
do  she  couldn't  think :  whether  he  would  have  a  fit,  or 
order  his  carriage,  or  lose  his  temper,  or  get  tipsy,  she 
could  not  settle.  But  she  found  herself  smiling  over  that 
little  speculation,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  her  smile 
swelled  into  a  laugh,  so  loud  that  everyone  asked  her 
what  the  joke  might  be,  but  she  would  not  tell  them. 

So  they  sat  over  their  meat  and  drink,  as  though  there 
were  no  tragedy  in  the  world,  and  never  had  been  :  as  if, 

73 


Leighton  Court 

because  you  buried  an  ugly  thing  and  didn't  talk  about  it, 
that  there  were  to  be  no  more  ugly  things  for  ever  :  as  if 
the  butler's  cousin  had  not  been  hung  for  sheepstealing  ; 
as  if  one  of  the  footmen's  sisters  had  not  thrown  her  baby 
down  a  well ;  as  if  Sir  Peckwich's  brother  had  not  fled  to 
happier  and  more  easy-going  climes  ;  as  if  the  golden  lock 
of  hair  which  Colonel  Hilton  wore  round  his  neck  were 
not  his  sister's,  red  with  the  blood  of  the  Khyber  Pass ! 
And  quite  right  too. 

"  And  what  had  she  done  ?  "  she  asked  herself  in  scorn. 
"  The  man  was  a  gentleman  ;  there  was  no  one  in  the 
room  who  could  compare  with  him,  except  Hilton.  What 
had  made  him  commit  this  fatal  folly,  put  on  this  degrad- 
ing masquerade  ?  And  yet,  if  he  had  not,  she  could  never 
have  seen  him."  She  rebelled  against  the  notion  that  her 
love  for  him  was  disgraceful  one  moment,  and  then  the 
next  she  denied  that  it  existed  ;  but  she  sat  silent,  and  let 
them  tattle  on. 


Chapter  XVI 

POOR  Maria  Huxtable !  Prowling  among  the  desolate 
and  empty  flower-beds,  lurking  behind  the  shrubs,  she  got 
glimpses  of  the  party  through  the  half-drawn  blinds.  The 
man  she  loved  was  there,  gay  and  cheerful,  little  dreaming 
who  was  watching  him  ;  and  the  woman  who  could  have 
saved  her,  had  she  been  more  patient,  was  beside  him, 
laughing  and  talking  loudly  and  almost  boisterously. 
"  Laura  has  a  bad  heart,"  thought  Maria  ;  "  can  she  laugh 
so  soon  after  my  story  ?  " — Alas,  yes  !  she  has  her  own 
story  too,  Maria.  "And  yet  I  loved  that  woman  once." 
And  so  she  delayed  there  in  the  growing  darkness,  tor- 
menting her  poor  heart  by  looking  into  the  house  she  never 
would  enter  again  as  a  friend,  and  watching  eagerly  the 
man  she  loved  so  dearly,  to  think  of  whom  was  a  crime. 
At  last  she  turned  to  go  towards  her  home  and  her  fate 

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The  servant  who  had  rowed  them  over  was  asleep  in  the 
boat  before  she  came  back  ;  behind  her,  as  she  crossed, 
the  wood  and  the  low  long  fa§ade  of  the  Court  were  bathed 
in  the  dim  dull  light  of  a  young  moon ;  but  before,  the 
cruel  keep  of  her  future  home  rose  black  and  ominous,  with 
the  blurred  crescent  behind  its  topmost  battlement,  and  the 
wooded  cliff  so  dark  that  you  could  scarcely  tell  when  the 
boat  touched  the  shore. 

Dinner  would  not  be  till  half-past  eight.  There  was 
time  before  her  yet,  precious  time !  Before  she  went  to 
bed  that  night  her  fate  would  be  sealed.  She  knew  that  if 
she  said  yes,  she  could  never  unsay  it ;  she  felt  terribly 
sure  of  that.  All  that  Laura  had  said  of  Sir  Harry  was 
true ;  yet  wealth  and  title  were  great  things.  The  wish 
not  to  leave  her  dear  old  home,  where  her  sunny  life  had 
been  passed,  and  anger  against  Laura  and  pique  against 
Colonel  Hilton  were  terrible  assistants,  and  there  was  none 
by  to  help  her.  The  hour  of  grace  went  by  ;  and  as  she 
swept  into  the  drawing-room,  covered  with  jewels  and  lace, 
her  father  saw  that  she  was  dressed  for  attraction,  and  that 
the  deed  was  done. 

It  was  done  indeed.  These  three  were  alone  in  the 
house,  and  when  Sir  Harry  and  Mr.  Huxtable  rose  from 
their  wine,  the  host  gave  Sir  Harry  ten  minutes'  law.  At 
the  end  of  that  time,  coming  into  the  drawing-room,  he 
found  Maria  sitting  calmly  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  while 
Sir  Harry  warmed  his  knees,  and  examined  his  face  in  the 
pJer-glass.  As  Huxtable  entered  he  turned, — 

"  I  have  been  asking  Maria  not  to  leave  the  Castle  with 
you,  but  to  remain  as  its  mistress.  She  has  said  '  yes.' 
She  has  had  the  matter  put  before  her  in  the  most  favour- 
able manner  by  you,  and  has,  I  doubt  not,  heard  every 
word  that  those  two  cackling  old  idiots  Lady  Emily  Seck- 
erton  and  Lady  Southmolton,  not  to  mention  Miss  Laura, 
have  had  to  say  against  me.  She  has  had  the  good  sense 
to  say  '  yes.'  " 

Dare  a  man's  eye  follow  the  unhappy  girl  to  her  room 

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that  night— dare  a  man's  hand,  and  no  light  one,  write 
what  she  felt  and  what  she  said  !  Not  mine.  But  she 
knew  full  well  what  she  had  done ;  and  there  was  no 
shadow  of  turning  with  her. 


Chapter  XVII 

MARIA  departed  next  day  to  visit  an  aunt;  and  Sir 
Harry  Poyntz,  keeping  in  strict  seclusion,  stayed  over 
another  day  to  see  after  some  business. 

Immediately  after  lunch  that  next  day,  Mr.  Huxtable  got 
into  his  phaeton  and  drove  round,  announcing  his  daugh- 
ter's engagement  to  the  master  of  the  Castle. 

He  drove  all  the  short  afternoon,  from  one  country-house 
to  another,  generally  finding  some  members  of  the  family 
at  home  at  each  house.  As  he  drove  he  looked  more  aged, 
and  more  worn  as  he  left  each  neighbour's.  These  old- 
fashioned  country-folks  none  of  them  concealed  their  opin- 
ion about  the  matter.  From  house  to  house  up  the  left 
bank  of  the  Wysclith,  they  (some  member  of  each  family 
at  all  events)  let  him  know  their  opinion  of  the  business 
unmistakably.  Generally  the  announcement  was  received 
with  astonished  silence  ;  but  some  few  spoke.  Among  the 
latter  was  Sir  Peckwich  Downes,  who  spoke  to  the  pur- 
pose : — 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  lose  sight  of  my  dear  little  sweet- 
heart Maria  ;  but  you  see  of  course,  Huxtable,  that  it  is  im- 
possible for  me  to  know  anything  of  her  husband,  or  to 
exchange  any  more  courtesy  with  him  beyond  a  bow  when 
we  meet  on  the  bench." 

"  He  has  been  wild,"  said  poor  Huxtable. 

"  I  never  heard  of  that"  said  Sir  Peckwich.  "  I  was 
wild.  I  may  have  fought  one  Simon  Stockfish,  a  fruiterer, 
behind  Gray's  Inn.  My  eldest  son  was  very  unsteady  be- 
fore he  married — so  unsteady,  that  I  used  to  go  away  from 

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home  when  he  proposed  a  visit,  and  left  him  to  the  care  of 
his  mother  and  sisters.  They  brought  him  right,  and  he 
is  as  good  a  son  as  ever  stepped  since  he  married.  But 
this — this  '  man.'  " 

"  He  may  reform,  too,"  said  Huxtable. 

"  Huxtable  !  how  can  you  look  me  in  the  face  and  talk 
like  that  ?  Who  in  the  name  of  confusion  has  induced  you 
to  consent  to  this  shameful  arrangement  ?  I  can  only  tell 
you  one  thing :  if  this  affair  comes  off,  which  I  can  hardly 
believe  possible,  I  must  take  the  same  measure  with  you  as 
I  did  with  my  son — be  out  whenever  you  call." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  They  neither  spoke 
again.  The  next  house  was  the  Vicarage — the  next  per- 
son the  Vicar. 

It  happened  to  be  the  vigil  of  St.  Thomas  of  Moorstan- 
ton  (a  saint  whom  the  Vicar  had  evolved,  it  was  said,  out 
of  his  own  internal  consciousness  originally,  but  whom  the 
Vicar  had  "  developed,"  in  spite  of  three  or  four  sarcastic 
letters  from  the  Bishop  of  Exeter),  whose  body  had  been 
brought  and  buried  here  at  Wysclith,  in  spite  of  the  strenu- 
ous opposition  of  five  hundred  thousand  ass  panier  loads 
of  small  devils.  So  the  Vicar  had  got  out  the  school-chil- 
dren, and  was  doing  a  wonderful  service  over  the  grave  of 
the  saint  in  whom  no  one  ever  believed  but  himself,  in  the 
churchyard.  Consequently  poor  Huxtable  was  received  by 
the  Vicaress,  a  childless  and  submissive  lady  of  fifty,  who 
wore  scarlet  gloves,  in  deference  to  her  husband's  orders. 

Huxtable  had  been  so  very  much  bullied  to-day  that  he 
was  very  humble  here.  Even  to  this  woman,  the  fool  of 
the  neighbourhood — who  had  brought  the  Vicar  money, 
and  who  never  had  a  say  in  her  own  house — who  followed 
blindly  all  her  husband's  vagaries,  while  the  sounder  heads 
of  his  party  cried  out  against  him  for  ruining  their  cause 
with  his  folly :  even  before  this  woman  (the  "  Umbrella," 
as  Laura  had  christened  her)  he  was  humble  to-day.  He 
broke  the  news  to  her  apologetically  ;  and  as  he  did  so, 
she  by  degrees  took  off  her  scarlet  gloves. 

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"  And  now,  my  dear  madam,"  he  said,  "  what  is  your 
opinion  ?  " 

"  My  opinion,"  said  the  "  Umbrella,"  "  most  decidedly 
is  that  you  haven't  got  the  feelings  of  a  man  about  you. 
If  that  dear  girl's  blessed  mother  had  been  alive,  you  never 
would  have  had  the  impudence  to  propose  such  a  thing." 

If  one  of  his  own  Leicester  lambs  had,  after  this,  ran  at 
him  barking,  and  bitten  him  in  the  calf  of  his  leg,  he  could 
not  have  been  surprised.  If  a  mere  umbrella  of  a  woman 
like  this  gave  him  such  a  reception,  what  could  be  expected 
of  her  husband,  coming  fresh,  in  a  state  of  supramundane 
pietism,  in  a  green  chasuble,  from  the  tomb  of  a  saint  ? 
Huxtable  fled  without  confronting  the  Vicar ;  and  as  he 
took  the  reins,  and  set  the  horses'  heads  towards  the  Court, 
said  aloud, — 

"  Let  us  have  it  over  at  once ;  let  us  get  through  with 
it." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  groom  beside  him. 

"  Let  us  have  a  finish  and  end  of  it ;  I'll  stand  no  more 
of  this  after  to-day." 

The  young  groom's  conscience  was  troubled  somehow, 
for  he  said — 

"  It  was  all  along  of  the  Court  servants,  sir.  And  we 
was  in  afore  twelve  after  all." 

Huxtable  laughed,  but  his  laugh  did  him  no  good.  He 
felt  like  a  beaten  dog  in  this  matter.  Everyone  had  turned 
against  him,  and  why  ?  If  this  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  was  out- 
side the  pale  of  all  society,  why  had  no  one  ever  told  him 
of  it?  Most  certainly  no  one  ever  had.  His  fourteen 
years'  lease  of  the  Castle  was  nearly  up,  and  he  had,  dur- 
ing that  time,  heard  nothing  more  against  Sir  Harry  Poyntz 
than  he  had  heard  against  the  eldest  young  Downes,  or 
against  half-a-dozen  others ;  and  yet,  now  it  came  to  the 
pinch,  the  county,  which  had  submitted  to  his  coming  back 
there,  who  had  talked  of  the  Poyntz  as  of  themselves. 
burst  out  on  him  in  furious  rage,  at  the  first  mention  of 
his  marrying  an  honest  man's  daughter !  Are  class  preju- 

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dices  so  strong  that  they  would  keep  a  secret  like  this  from 
him  ?  And  now  he  had  to  face  the  Court,  Lady  South- 
molton  and  Lady  Emily,  who  gave  laws  hereabouts,  and 
announce  it  to  them.  But  he  would  go  through  with  iL 
He  was  an  honest  Manchester  man,  and  would  know  the 
truth.  He  would  not  have  half  -  statements  from  Lady 
Southmolton. 

"  I  shall  get  the  truth  there"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
that  noble  instinct  which  makes  honesty  recognise  honest 
folks.  And  so  he  would  have — but 

As  he  came  thundering  along  in  his  mailrphaeton  through 
the  park,  he  turned  round  the  corner  of  a  plantation,  and 
caught  sight  of  a  group  before  him. 

Laura  was  riding  side  by  side  with  a  very  gallant-look- 
ing young  fellow  in  a  black  coat,  but  otherwise  dressed  as 
a  foxhunter,  who  was  leading  a  horse  ;  and  they  were  al- 
most alone,  talking  together  in  an  animated  manner.  A 
hundred  yards  ahead  rode  Sir  Charles  on  "  The  Elk," 
looking  every  inch  the  perfect  gentleman  and  gallant 
horseman  that  he  was.  His  long  but  perfectly-shaped 
and  beautifully-clothed  legs  seemed  made  to  clip  that  vast 
mass  of  horseflesh,  and  his  upright  not  too  broad  back 
moved  gracefully,  under  the  perfectly-cut  red  coat,  with 
every  movement  of  the  horse.  A  gallant  gentleman,  yet 
his  close-cropped  grey  head  was  rather  bent  down  to-day, 
and  he  seemed  tired  with  his  hunting. 

As  the  phaeton  bore  down  on  them,  the  talkers  parted 
and  rode  aside  on  to  the  turf.  He  saw  both  their  faces ; 
Laura's  was  animated  and  interested.  He  looked  at  the 
dandy  in  the  black  coat,  and  to  his  unutterable  amazement 
beheld  Hammersley,  and  he  was  laughing.  He  was  very 
much  astonished ;  but  Laura  was,  in  her  high-and-mighty 
way,  very  familiar  with  servants  and  dogs,  he  thought : 
still  this  was  going  rather  far. 

"  Does  this  young  man  hunt  in  black  ?  "  he  asked  his 
groom. 

"  Yes,  sir.    He  says  everyone  wears  pink  now.     He 

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would  not  hunt  in  a  frock  at  first,  and  now  he  has  given 
up  red  altogether." 

"  Does  Sir  Charles  allow  these  airs  ?  " 

"  Allow,  sir !  He  orders  Sir  Charles  about  everywhere, 
and  he  only  laughs." 

But  it  soon  went  out  of  his  head ;  for  Sir  Charles  stopped 
and  waited  for  him,  and  trotted  along  with  him  gaily  when 
he  came  up,  telling  him  of  the  run,  some  part  of  which,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  was  one  of  the  finest  things  ever  seen. 
When  they  got  to  the  front-door,  and  had  dismounted. 
Sir  Charles  said,  of  course,  "  Come  in,  my  dear  Huxtable." 

Huxtable  said,  "  No,  come  into  the  pleasance  with  me  ;  " 
and  Sir  Charles  went,  seeing  that  Huxtable  had  something 
to  say  ;  and  they  walked  up  and  down  along  the  terrace, 
not  six  hundred  yards  from  the  great  keep  across  the  river. 
It  never  occurred  to  either  of  them  that  Sir  Harry  Poyntz 
was  watching  them  through  a  field-glass,  but  he  was. 

"  Seckerton,  our  intercourse  has  been  a  very  pleasant 
one  for  twenty  years." 

Sir  Charles'  hand  was  on  his  shoulder  in  a  moment ;  he 
needed  to  say  nothing. 

"  I  fear  your  hand  will  be  moved  directly,  Seckerton  ;  I 
fear  this  will  be  our  last  interview.  I  have  got  it  over 
with  Sir  Peckwich  Downes,  and  have  gone  out  of  his 
house  without  waiting  to  be  ordered  out.  I  have  given 
my  consent  to  Maria's  marriage  with  Sir  Harry  Poyntz !  " 

Sir  Charles'  hand  was  withdrawn  indeed  ;  he  put  both 
his  hands  suddenly  to  his  head,  and  cried  out,  "  Oh,  good 
heavens ! " 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  said  Huxtable,  delighting  in  his  own 
torture  in  a  strange  kind  of  way,  "  and  the  match  is  prin- 
cipally of  my  seeking.  He  is  desperately  in  love  with  her 
— sixty  thousand  pounds ;  and  I  have  put  before  her  for- 
cibly, as  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a  prudent  and  affection- 
ate father,  the  rank,  prestige,  and  title  which  she  will  gain 
by  such  a  match.  I  have  done  everything  to  forward  it  in 
every  way.  I  have  got  my  will,  and  I  wish  we  were  both 
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dead,  dead,  dead,  lying  quietly  asleep  beside  her  mother 
in  the  cemetery  at  Manchester." 

"  It  would  be  much  better,"  said  Sir  Charles,  quietly. 
And  Huxtable,  turning,  saw  that  he  was  scared  and 
shocked.  He  grew  frightened  himself  now,  and  waited 
for  Sir  Charles  to  go  on. 

"  This  has  come  on  me  rather  suddenly.  Are  you  aware 
of  the  character  Sir  Harry  bears  in  the  county?  " 

"  Something  between  Judas  Iscariot  and  Beelzebub, 
apparently,"  said  Huxtable,  "  though  no  one  has  had  the 
friendliness  to  give  me  any  details  until  it  is  too  late." 

"  It  is  not  too  late  now,  is  it  ?  Surely  not ;  your  daugh- 
ter would  listen  to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  now.  I  know  Maria  better  than  you.  And  there 
is  something  the  matter  about  someone  else ;  and  there's 
a  good  deal  of  spite  in  the  business,  that  is  the  truth. 
And  it  is  too  late ;  Maria  won't  go  back  now." 

"  But  he,  my  dear  sir — he  ?  " 

"  He  give  up  sixty  thousand  pounds  ! "  laughed  Hux- 
table ;  "  he'd  sooner  prosecute  her  for  breach  !  " 

"  But  remove  the  sixty  thousand ;  cut  her  off  with  a 

penny ;  disin "  and  there  he  stopped  like  a  bullet  on 

the  target. 

Huxtable  began  slowly :  "  There  seems  to  be  some- 
thing that  no  one  dares  tell  me.  And  I'd  sooner  do  that 

than .     What  is  it  ?     Is  it  friendly  or  manly  in  you, 

Sir  Charles,  to  keep  me  in  the  dark  on  such  a  subject  ? 
Come !  " 

Sir  Charles  remained  as  dumb  as  a  stone  for  a  minute  ; 
his  thin  brown  handsome  face  seemed  pinched  up,  as 
though  with  a  spasm.  At  last  he  said, — 

"  I  am  taken  by  surprise.  Will  you  go  away  now,  and 
come  to  me  again  to-morrow  morning  ?  And  will  you  be 
assured  of  one  thing :  that  I  believe  that  you  have  acted 
in  the  dark  about  this  matter,  and  that  nothing  shall  ever 
alter  the  relations  between  us  ?  Stick  by  me,  Huxtable, 
and  I  will  stick  by  you  through  everything." 
Si 


Leighton  Court 


Chapter  XVIII 

THAT  night,  after  dinner,  Sir  Charles,  with  his  wife, 
and  mother,  and  Laura,  were  together  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Sir  Charles,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
looking  steadily  over  the  tops  of  the  women's  heads  at  a 
Raeburn  of  himself  sitting  on  his  mother's  shoulder,  told 
them  about  Maria  Huxtable's  engagement. 

Laura  was  not  surprised,  of  course;  Lady  Emily 
bounced — yes,  indeed,  bounced — off  her  chair  in  an  acute 
attack  of  virtuous  indignation  ;  while  Lady  Southmolton 
only  took  off  her  spectacles,  laid  down  her  work,  and  be- 
gan rubbing  her  two  waxen  withered  old  hands  one  over 
the  other. 

What  Lady  Emily  said  was  much  the  same  as  what 
everyone  else  had  said,  and  so  the  reader  may  guess  at  it. 
Sir  Charles  had  expected  her  outbreak,  but  was  more 
anxious  to  hear  what  her  mother  would  say.  It  was  some 
time  before  he  heard  it,  for  his  wife  took  a  long  time 
running  down.  When  she  had  subsided  into  a  state  of 
occasional  indignant  interjections,  his  mother-in-law  be- 
gan, in  a  style  which  gave  Sir  Charles  great  surprise. 
That  she  always  made  the  best  of  things  with  the  most 
wonderful  tact,  and  an  amount  of  Christian  charity  he  had 
never  seen  elsewhere,  he  was  perfectly  aware ;  but  he  was 
not  prepared  for  the  way  in  which  the  old  lady,  in  her  op- 
timism, supplied  him  with  the  very  arguments. he  was  dy- 
ing to  find  for  himself — 

"  Maria  might  have  married  anyone,"  she  said ;  "  and  I 
think  myself,  not  that  it  is  any  business  of  ours  in  any 
way  whatever,  that  she  is  throwing  herself  away.  Still, 
we  must  remember  that  Harry  Poyntz  has  been  much 
steadier  lately — nay,  seems  to  be  growing  into  a  model 
young  man  altogether.  He  had  a  bad  start  in  life. 
Hte  morals  were  corrupted  by  the  example  of  his  father, 

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and  his  estate  dipped,  I  thought  beyond  all  hope,  by  his 
father's  and  latterly  by  his  brother's  extravagance.  He 
has  brought  the  estate  right,  or  nearly  so,  and  is  going  to 
put  it  right  entirely  by  a  most  prudent  match  with  a  most 
estimable  girl.  I  have  every  wish  for  their  happiness.  And 
I  should  say — you  know  how  used  I  am  to  giving  advice, 
my  dears,  and  you  must  forgive  me — that  our  duty  is  not 
to  stand  in  the  way,  by  any  means  whatever,  of  the  re- 
pentance and  the  reception  into  a  higher  atmosphere  of  a 
misguided  and  unfortunate  young  man,  who  seems  to  be 
trying  to  retrieve  himself,  financially  and  morally." 

They  heard  a  measured  beat  of  oars,  coming  across  the 
river  towards  the  Court. 

Lady  Emily,  as  she  heard  her  mother's  infallible  saint- 
like voice  putting  the  case  in  this  form,  grew  awestruck, 
and  began  to  get  thoroughly  ashamed  of  her  late  out- 
break. Sir  Charles  was  very  uneasy,  but  allowed  that  the 
old  lady  had  put  it  marvellously  well.  But  Laura  —  the 
gentle,  highly-trained,  perfectly-formed,  submissive  Laura 
— rose  suddenly  up  in  flat  furious  rebellion,  and  frightened 
them  all  three  (though  they  were  too  cunning  to  show  it) 
out  of  their  wits. 

"  I  say,"  she  burst  out,  "  that  it  is  a  wicked  and  shame- 
ful business  from  beginning  to  end,  and  I'll  stop  it ! 
Grandma,  how  can  you  use  your  tact  to  find  excuses  ?  No, 
ma,  I  am  not  in  the  schoolroom !  Father,  you  seem  tame 
and  acquiescent  over  the  matter;  am  I  to  distrust youf 
But  if  we  talk  about  it  any  more  we  shall  quarrel,  for  the 
first  time  in  our  lives ;  and  I  can  only  say  one  thing,  that 
it  can't  be  and  sha'n't  be,  and  that  I'll  stop  it!  Colonel 
Hilton's  little  finger  is  worth  Sir  Harry's  whole  body,  and 
I  will  put  things  right,  and  put  a  stop  to  it." 

If  she  had  been  an  older  campaigner,  after  having 
charged  the  enemy,  she  would  have  held  the  ground  won, 
and  waited  for  her  supports,  which  were  close  at  hand,  for 
her  mother  was  rallying  and  forming  fast.  Instead  of  this 
she  committed  the  error  of  retiring,  being  contented  with 

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the  astonishment  inflicted,  leaving  the  enemy  only  tem- 
porarily paralysed — in  other  words,  flounced  out  of  the 
room,  and  gave  them  time  to  re-form. 

Not  in  the  most  dignified  fashion  though,  for  she  came 
full-tilt  against  a  footman,  unobserved  by  the  whole  party, 
who  was  holding  the  door  open  ;  and  having  nearly  knocked 
him  down,  found  herself  immediately  after  cast  against  a 
fierce  and  severe-looking  gentleman,  in  evening  dress,  with 
two  orders  on  his  coat ;  who  on  seeing  her  bowed  a  great 
deal  too  low,  leered  a  great  deal  too  much,  backed  against 
a  table  like  dear  Lord  Hatterleigh  himself,  and  in  dashing 
to  hold  the  next  door  open  for  her,  trod  on  her  gown,  and 
tore  it  out  of  the  gathers.  She  gave  him  that  particular 
woman's  bow  which  means  "  There  is  some  one  in  the 
neighbourhood  somewhere,"  and  wrathfully  disappeared. 

Before  the  capsized  footman  was  discovered  by  the  three 
left  behind,  Lady  Southmolton  had  looked  across  her  son- 
in-law  to  her  daughter,  and  said  quietly  : — 

"  This  is  your  foxhunting ;  this  is  your  galloping  about 
alone  at  all  hours."  The  grievance  was  ten  years  old,  and 
had  not  been  turned  up  before.  The  retort  was  not  less 
precious  to  the  old  lady  for  that. 

"  Captain  Southcot,  sir,  wishes  to  speak  to  you  in  the 
anteroom." 

"  And  who  on  earth  is  Captain  Southcot  ?  And  what 
on  earth  prevents  Captain  Southcot  from  coming  at  a  de- 
cent hour  in  the  day  ? "  snapped  out  poor  irritated  Sir 
Charles  in  a  loud  voice,  and  at  the  same  moment  caught 
sight  of  that  gentleman  standing  within  ten  feet  of  him, 
and  recognised  him — one  of  the  very  men  in  this  world  he 
was  least  anxious  to  offend.  He  was  very  much  taken 
aback,  but  perfectly  up  to  the  emergency.  He  burst  out 
into  a  laugh,  and  advanced  towards  Captain  Southcot  with 
his  hand  extended,  repeating, — 

"  And  who  on  earth  is  Captain  Southcot  ?     And  why 
the  deuce  has  he  dared  to  come  into  the  neighbourhood 
without  knocking  his  father's  old  friend  up  before  this  ?  " 
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Poor  Sir  Charles  !  Baden  would  be  better  than  this  sort 
of  thing — to  be  driven  to  lying  for  the  first  time  in  a  life, 
and  old  age  fast  creeping  on.  He  felt  this — it  came  on  him 
like  a  shock ;  he  tried  to  sustain  the  effort,  but  it  was  too 
much  for  him  ;  he  began  to  get  forgetful,  and  talk  nonsense. 

With  the  greatest  empressement  he  had  Captain  South- 
cot  in,  and  introduced  him.  The  two  ladies  saw  in  one 
moment  that  he  was  what  our  late  lamented  friend  Major 
Pendennis  would  have  called  a  "  tiger."  He  was  a  man 
with  a  complexion,  a  nose,  and  a  moustache  which  didn't 
cover  his  teeth.  He  had  eyes  too  somewhere,  arguing  by 
analogy,  or  he  couldn't  have  got  there  without  a  dog  or  a 
boy ;  but  if  anyone  had  told  you  so,  you  would  almost  have 
felt  inclined  to  deny  it.  His  face  was  too  small  and  too 
short,  and  his  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle — the  sort  of 
man  one  has  a  morbid  desire  to  contradict  flatly,  if  not  to 
go  further. 

"  Your  father  was  an  old  friend  of  mine  at  school,"  said 
Sir  Charles,  "  and  I  remember  your  mother  Lady  Joanna 
Southcot  well." 

"  Lady  Mary  Southcot,"  said  the  captain,  grinning. 

"  Lady  Mary,  of  course ;  what  am  I  thinking  of  ?  Poor 
dear  Joanna  Southcot !  I  ought  to  remember  her,  too,  well 
enough ;  she  was  your  aunt" 

Lady  Emily  rapped  the  table  two  or  three  times,  and  said 
impatiently,  "  My  dear  Charles,  you  are  wool-gathering ! " 

Conversation  is  generally  hopeless  when  three  people  are 
wondering  what  on  earth  the  fourth  one  has  come  for ;  but 
it  was  more  hopeless  still  after  Sir  Charles'  dreadful 
blunder.  It  had  not  become  quite  monosyllabic,  when 
Lady  Southmolton  came  to  their  assistance  by  making 
preparations  for  bed,  by  moving  from  the  chair  she  oc- 
cupied all  day  to  the  bed  she  occupied  all  night — a  transi- 
tion which  had  something  of  solemnity  in  it  to  these  good 
devoted  people ;  for  she  was  so  feeble  now,  that  none  of 
them  knew  but  that  the  next  morning  the  chair  might  be 
empty. 


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As  soon  as  her  work  was  put  in  the  bag,  and  her  little 
books  of  devotion  which  lay  around  her  all  day  were 
gathered  up,  and  she  had  gone  away  on  her  daughter's 
arm,  Sir  Charles  shut  the  door  behind  them,  and  turning 
round  on  Captain  Southcot,  said  quietly — 

"  Now,  sir  ?  " 

He  looked  so  big,  so  grand,  and  so  melancholy,  as  he 
looked  down  on  the  miserable  little  ape  before  him,  that 
that  gentleman  was  abashed,  and  only  handed  him  a  note. 
For  the  fulfilment  of  the  rest  of  his  commission,  to  report 
how  Sir  Charles  looked  on  reading  it,  he  had  recourse  to 
his  imagination,  and  lied  horribly,  but  so  clumsily  that  he 
got  himself  sworn  at. 

Sir  Charles  read  the  note  carefully,  folded  it  up  again, 
put  it  in  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  began  staring  at  Captain 
Southcot  with  his  great  hazel  eyes,  which  looked  awfully 
prominent  under  his  grey  eyebrows.  After  an  interval, 
longer  than  was  quite  polite,  he  said — 

"  Do  you  know  the  contents  of  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  now  won't  you  take  something  before  you  go  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  thank  you." 

"  Quite  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

"  Will  nothing  tempt  you,"  said  Sir  Charles,  ringing  the 
bell :  "  sherry  and  seltzer,  brandy  and  soda-water,  noyeau 
and  lemonade  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you,"  said  Captain  Southcot,  who 
didn't  like  the  look  of  the  old  gentleman,  and  was  bowing 
himself  out.  "  There  is  no  answer  to  the  letter,  then  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  You  may  tell  your  master  not  to 
send  you  here  again  if  you  like.  But  are  you  quite  sure 
you  won't  take  anything  ?  It  is  to  be  had  in  one  mo- 
ment :  gingerbeer  and  bitters,  brimstone  and  treacle — 
anything !  They  are  going  to  supper  in  the  servants'- 
hall ;  won't  you  join  them  ?  Good-night.  Don't  let  me 
catch  you  here  again." 

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Chapter  XIX 

POOR  Sir  Charles  was  in  very  sad  trouble  indeed — in  n 
fearful  dilemma ;  but  he  would  not  face  it  out,  and  took 
the  consequences.  It  becomes  necessary  to  see  what  these 
troubles  arose  from,  and  how  they  had  accumulated. 

About  the  best  way  for  a  gentleman  of  easy  disposition 
with  four  thousand  a-year  to  ruin  himself,  is  for  him  to 
take  the  hounds  and  keep  open  house.  If  these  two 
things  will  not  do  it,  let  him  farm  five  or  six  hundred  acres 
of  his  own  land  ;  if  that  does  not  finish  him  he  must  have 
the  most  astonishing  good  fortune.  Now  Sir  Charles  had 
done  all  these  three  things,  and  his  fortune  had  been  bad. 

When  Sir  George  Downes  died,  and  his  son,  the  pres- 
ent baronet,  declined  to  keep  the  hounds  on,  Sir  Charles 
"  nobly  came  forward,"  as  the  county  paper  had  it,  and 
offered  to  take  them  if  the  county  would  give  him  a  thou- 
sand a-year.  An  enthusiastic  meeting  of  the  hunt  and  the 
farmers  was  called,  who  voted  that  sum  by  acclamation, 
and,  what  is  more,  paid  it — for  the  first  year ;  after  that 
the  subscriptions  had  got  rapidly  less  and  less,  so  that,  for 
the  last  ten  years,  Sir  Charles  had  had  little  to  depend  on 
beyond  the  regularly-paid  fifty  guineas  of  Sir  Peckwich 
Downes,  and  his  own  pocket. 

He  had  everything  perfectly  though  not  extravagantly 
done ;  and  he  found  that  the  hounds  cost  him  just  about 
2,ooo/.  a-year.  Devonshire  is  a  cheap  county,  and  Lady 
Emily  was  a  most  thrifty  and  excellent  manager,  so  she 
managed  to  keep  house  with  4,ooo/.  a-year,  whereas  Lady 
Downes  could  not  do  nearly  as  much  for  five ;  put  an- 
other thousand  on  for  sundries,  and  you  will  get  a  very 
pretty  yearly  deficit,  which  had  been  going  on  for  twelve 
years.  But  this  was  not  the  worst.  Sir  Charles  could 
calculate  all  this  ;  but  he  never  knew,  never  could  dare  to 
think,  even  to  this  day,  what  he  lost  upon  the  home-farm. 

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I  have  known  30,0007.  lost  on  i  ,200  acres,  and  the  muddle 
in  that  case  was  certainly  not  worse  than  in  that  of  the 
home-farm  at  Leighton  Court.  He  may  have  lost  any- 
thing. Meanwhile  he  had  not  been  over-anxious,  for  the 
whole  of  the  Shropshire  property  came  to  him  at  the  death 
of  Miss  Seckerton  of  Brignal,  who,  however,  was  only  six- 
and-forty. 

Of  course  his  estate  was  deeply  mortgaged,  but  no  one 
knew  of  it,  and  many  would  not  have  believed  it.  Sir 
Charles  had  such  a  character  in  the  neighbourhood  for 
foresight  and  prudence,  that  he  was  resorted  to  for  ad- 
vice by  all  his  neighbours,  on  subjects  varying  from  the 
choosing  of  a  gun  to  the  marrying  of  a  daughter  ;  and,  in- 
deed, he  deserved  this  confidence,  for  a  clearer  head  for 
other  folks'  business  never  was  on  human  shoulders.  It 
would  have  been  an  inexpressibly  sad  thing  for  Sir  Charles 
to  have  confessed  himself  a  poor  and  unthrifty  man  before 
these  simple  people ;  but  a  greater  evil  than  that  had 
threatened  him  for  this  year  past,  and  had  made  him  wish 
sometimes  that  he  could  say,  once  for  all,  "  Neighbours,  I 
have  been  deceiving  you  all ;  I  am  but  the  most  foolish 
and  the  poorest  among  you.  I  only  ask  to  die  with  your 
faces  around  me."  He  thought  that  he  would  retrench 
and  get  his  estate  right  before  the  Shropshire  money  fell 
in,  but  he  began  to  think  so  when  it  was  too  late ! 

His  man  of  business  had  come  to  him  one  day,  and  in- 
formed him  that  he  had  discovered  that  every  mortgage 
on  the  estate  was  in  the  hands  of  Sir  Harry  Poyntz. 
When  Sir  Charles,  aghast,  asked  how  he  had  discovered  it, 
he  replied  that  that  was  the  strangest  part  of  the  business ; 
that  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  whom  he  had  never  spoken  to,  had 
stopped  him  in  the  street  and  informed  him  of  the  fact  in 
a  very  few  words,  had  then  laughed  and  ridden  off. 

From  that  day  Sir  Charles'  head  had  begun  to  bow. 
Nearly  a  year  passed,  and  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  made  no  sign. 
The  latter  had  improved  his  acquaintance  with  his  tenant 
Mr.  Huxtable  and  his  charming  daughter  in  the  North,  and 

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had  clinched  that  matter  by  coming  down  to  the  Castle 
and  proposing  to  Maria.  Until  the  day  after  that,  no 
communication  had  passed  between  him  and  Sir  Charles. 
But  he  had  watched  Huxtable  and  him  through  a  glass, 
and  had  noticed  the  attitude  of  disgust  and  horror  with 
which  Sir  Charles  received  the  intelligence,  and  he  saw 
that  he  must  act. 

That  evening  he  sent  across  his  toady,  henchman,  or 
what  you  call  that  sort  of  man,  a  particularly  worthless 
young  fellow,  with  the  note  of  which  we  have  seen  the  ar- 
rival and  reception. 

There  was  no  actual  threat  in  it.  He  merely  pointed 
out  Sir  Charles'  great  influence  over  Huxtable,  and  that  if 
it  was  used  to  prevent  his  marriage  with  Maria,  he  (Sir 
Harry)  would  miss  sixty  thousand  pounds,  for  which  he 
should  indemnify  himself  (so  he  said)  if  his  own  father 
stood  in  the  way. 

That  was  all,  and  enough  too  for  poor  Sir  Charles ! 
Forced  as  it  were  to  lie  —  he  who  had  always  been  so 
acutely  proud  of  his  honour  and  straightforwardness,  to  be 
driven  to  this ! 

Laura,  coming  in  late  into  his  dressing-room,  found  him 
with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  and  the  letter  lying  be- 
fore him.  She  came  in  softly.  She  was  accustomed  to 
coming  in  softly  on  these  occasions,  and  to  passing  a  few 
golden  happy  minutes  in  loving  talk  with  the  man  she 
loved  best  in  all  the  world.  There  was  once  perfect  con- 
fidence between  those  two ;  their  hearts  had  been  so 
drawn,  as  it  were,  to  one  another,  that  their  friendship 
had  become  greater  than  that  between  two  men  who  had 
tried  and  who  trusted  one  another — greater  than  the  mere 
instinctive  love  of  father  and  daughter. 

But  all  this  was  past.  One  thing  Sir  Charles  had  un- 
happily concealed  from  his  daughter — his  difficulties.  One 
thing  Laura  would  fain  have  concealed  even  from  herself, 
but  could  not.  Something  had  disturbed  their  confidence, 
and  each  thought  they  were  the  guilty  one. 

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As  she  came  behind  him  to-night,  she  saw  the  letter 
lying  open  before  him,  and,  before  she  knew  what  she  was 
doing,  she  had  read,  "  Yours  very  truly,  Harry  Poyntz." 
The  look  of  wonder  was  still  on  her  face  when  he  turned, 
and  saw  that  she  had  read  it.  He  angrily  crumpled  it  up 
in  his  hand  and  turned  towards  her. 

"  Laura,"  he  said,  coldly,  "  I  see  by  your  eyes  that  you 
have  read  the  signature  of  this  letter." 

"  Accidentally." 

"  Of  course  I  mean  accidentally,  my  love  !  Laura,  when 
you  left  the  room  this  evening  you  said  that  you  could  and 
would  put  a  stop  to  the  match  between  him  (touching  the 
letter)  and  poor  Maria." 

"  I  did,  and  I  will." 

"  Now,  my  child,  I  charge  you,  on  your  duty,  to  remain 
absolutely  neutral  in  the  matter." 

"  Oh,  father— father  !  " 

"  Absolutely  neutral !  It  is  not  your  business  to  inter- 
fere in  any  way.  Older  and  wiser  heads  than  yours  are  at 
work  upon  it." 

"  You  surely  are  not  going  to  let  it  take  place  ?  " 

"  You  talk  like  a  perfect  child.  In  the  first  place,  I 
have  not  decided  what  course  to  pursue  ;  and  in  the  sec- 
ond, what  right  have  I  to  dictate  to  Huxtable  who  his 
daughter  may  or  may  not  marry?  I  meanwhile  insist 
that  the  influence  of  this  family  shall  be  used  through  me, 
and  through  me  only." 

Poor  Laura  saw  that  her  father  was  sold  to  the  enemy, 
but  would  not  acknowledge  it  to  himself.  She  was  too 
sick  at  heart  to  say  anything  more.  For  the  first  time  he 
had  spoken  harshly  to  her.  She  would  wait  for  better 
times  ;  she  turned  away  and  left  him. 

When  Mr.  Huxtable  called  at  eleven  o'clock  the  next 
day,  he  was  shown  into  the  breakfast-room,  where  he 
found  only  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Southmolton,  who  had 
evidently  waited  there  for  him,  before  taking  up  her  usual 
seat  by  the  little  drawing-room  fire.  Sir  Charles  merely 

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gave  him  "  good-morning  : "  he  left  Lady  Southmolton  to 
speak. 

She  soon  began.  "  We  heard  a  piece  of  news  last 
night,"  she  said,  "  and  it  is  my  turn  to  congratulate  you 
on  it.  The  more  I  have  thought  of  this  match  between 
your  daughter  and  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  the  better  I  think  of 
it.  It  is  an  eminently  good  match  ;  he  has  family,  a  large 
and  increasing  fortune,  youth,  and  health.  He  is  not 
worthy  of  her — no  man  is,  you  say — but  she  would  wait 
a  long  time  before  she  did  better.  Sir  Harry  might  mar- 
ry nearly  anyone  he  chose  in  London.  It  is  a  good 
match." 

And  so  she  honestly  believed.  She  had  been  so  very 
much  used  to  see  very  happy  marriages  made  on  mere 
worldly  grounds,  that  she  had  got  to  regard  the  thing 
rather  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  would  not  have  thought 
that  she  was  doing  her  duty  had  she  stood  between  Maria 
and  such  a  match — so  she  spoke  as  above. 

Her  word  was  law  to  Mr.  Huxtable,  and  the  thing  was 
done  :  Sir  Charles  sitting  by  silent,  and  trying  to  believe 
that  what  his  mother-in-law  said  was  true,  but  not  in  the 
least  degree  succeeding. 


Chapter  XX 

THIS  year,  on  Christmas  Eve,  the  gout,  which  had  for 
some  years  been  twitching  at  the  long  fingers  and  tugging 
at  the  small,  well-formed  feet  of  long  Jim  Pollifex  of  Fern- 
worthy,  flew  to  his  stomach  in  a  kind  of  pet,  killed  him, 
and  went  off  to  seek  another  victim. 

"  He  was  a  great  loss  to  the  county,"  said  the  bucolic 
interest ;  "  a  great  loss  to  county  society,"  said  everyone 
who  had  ever  been  in  it ;  "a  great  loss  to  the  bucolic  in- 
terest," said  both  Tory  and  Whig.  The  Whigs  determined 
on  a  fight  for  that  division  of  the  county,  and  spent  1557. 

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ios.  gd.  on  a  patriotic  address,  setting  forth  the  claims  of 
Colonel  Hilton. 

Pollifex  had  been  a  somewhat  remarkable  man — a  long- 
er, leaner,  shrewder,  wittier  edition  of  his  younger  brother 
and  heir  Abiram,  the  great  Australian  statesman.  He 
made  his  last  joke  to  the  doctor  when  he  was  told  things 
were  getting  serious,  and  nominated  Sir  Peckwich  Downes 
as  his  successor.  The  Liberals  withdrew  the  instant  his 
name  appeared  in  print,  and  their  1557.  ios.  gd.  worth  of 
stationery  was  pelted  with  mud  by  children  scarce  out  of 
arms.  The  Tories  had  played  too  big  a  card  for  them. 
Sir  Peckwich  Downes  had  done  so  much  work  for  the 
Tories  in  Parliament  before — was  so  very  big,  so  very 
good,  so  very  rich,  so  perfectly  convinced  of  the  infallibility 
of  his  opinions — such  a  model  landlord,  such  a  model  hus- 
band, such  a  capital  horseman,  such  a  thoroughly  kind- 
hearted  gentleman,  that  the  Liberals  felt  they  could  not 
play  even  such  a  card  as  Colonel  Hilton,  v.c.,  C.B.,  against 
him.  They  retired,  and  called  Sir  Peckwich  Downes  an  ass, 
in  which  they  were  mistaken.  There  was  no  opposition. 

So  the  Downes's  went  off  to  London  early  in  February, 
and  Lady  Downes  gave  herself  such  airs  before  she  went, 
that  our  people  were  not  very  sorry  when  she  was  gone. 
She  knew — eveiyone  knew — that  Sir  Peckwich 's  peerage 
was  certain,  should  the  Tories  come  into  power,  as  they 
were  sure  to  do  with  this  reaction  going  on  ;  and  she  took 
to  patronising  Lady  Southmolton,  until  that  old  lady  fur- 
bished up  her  old  arms,  and  did  a  little  mild  fighting. 
However,  she  was  gone,  and  Hoxworthy  was  empty,  and 
the  servants  gave  a  ball  in  the  gallery. 

It  turned  out  also  that  the  Liberal  agent  had  been  a  lit- 
tle too  quick  in  using  Colonel  Hilton's  name.  With  a 
laudable  effort  to  be  first  in  the  field,  he  had  started  that 
gentleman  without  any  attempt  at  consultation  with  him 
or  others.  That  gentleman,  his  enemies  said,  as  soon  as 
ever  he  saw  that  his  chance  was  hopeless,  resented  the  lib- 
erty which  had  been  taken  with  his  name,  by  writing  a 
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letter  to  the  county  paper,  indignantly  denying  any  com- 
plicity in  the  matter,  and  showing  that  he  had,  contem- 
poraneously with  the  Liberal  manifesto,  accepted  an  offi- 
cial mission  to  Chalons. 

It  was  perfectly  true.  He  had  been  appointed  by  the 
Horse  Guards  to  go  and  look  at  the  great  French  camp, 
and  he  went  away  and  out  of  the  way.  "  What  he  ever 
came  in  the  way  for,"  said  Lady  Southmolton,  "  is  a  ques- 
tion which,  with  our  limited  knowledge  of  the  ways  of 
Providence,  it  will  be  impossible  for  us  to  solve  on  this 
side  of  the  grave : "  in  saying  which  Lady  Southmolton 
spoke  too  fast. 

Lord  Hatterleigh,  with  his  hat  on  the  very  back  of  his 
head — with  his  respirator,  umbrella,  and  goloshes,  keeping 
both  windows  up  all  the  way — had  likewise  departed  for 
London,  to  attend  to  his  Parliamentary  duties.  Maria 
Huxtable  had  gone  the  day  after  her  quarrel  with  Laura, 
and  had  never  come  back.  She  and  her  father  were  in 
London,  where  they  were  joined,  very  soon  after  the  be- 
ginning of  the  season,  by  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  and  innumer- 
able north-country  friends,  while  preparations  for  the  wed- 
ding were  going  on  most  briskly.  No  one,  in  short,  was 
left  in  the  neighbourhood  but  our  people  and  the  Vicar, 
who,  after  a  long  wrangle  with  a  dissenting  granite-split- 
ter on  the  moor,  had  wrought  himself  into  a  Torquemada 
vein  and  excommunicated  him. 

All  else  was  very  still  and  peaceful ;  and  as  the  spring 
went  on  day  after  day,  even  the  Vicar  and  the  stone-split- 
ter ceased  to  wrangle,  and  were  out  trout-fishing  together 
before  April  was  over.  Nature  felt  spring  in  every  vein. 
Even  on  the  solitary  mountain-top  of  Fern  Tor  quaint  lit- 
tle plants  came  forth  and  sunned  themselves ;  the  great 
bog  got  himself  a  fringe  of  gold,  and  in  the  deep  granite 
glen  of  the  "  hundred  voices,"  down  which  Wysclith  hur- 
ried night  and  day,  his  roar  was  dulled  and  softened  by 
the  overarching  bowers  of  greenery. 

But  down  in  the  slate  and  red-sandstone  country  spring 

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showed  brightest.  There  the  greens  were  more  vivid,  the 
shadows  deeper,  the  water  in  the  streams  clear  as  crystal, 
untinged  by  peat.  The  beautiful  half-cultivated  valleys, 
which  stretched  in  all  directions,  deeply  wooded,  had  each 
one  a  sleepy  brook  which  murmured  on  from  shallow  to 
pool,  crowned  with  new  yellow  shoots  of  king-fern  and 
lady-fern,  hazel  and  alder.  Bright  and  rare  butterflies 
and  insects  shot  to  and  fro  across  the  surface  of  the  water, 
and  trout,  hardly  less  gaudy  than  the  butterflies,  poised 
themselves  below  in  the  crystal,  above  the  pale-blue  gravel. 
It  was  a  beautiful  season,  a  foolish  romantic  season  ; 
everywhere  too  was  the  jubilant  flute-voice  blackbird,  fill- 
ing the  air  with  song. 

As  for  Lady  Emily  and  her  mother,  they  had  nothing 
whatever  to  trouble  them,  and  were  happy  enough  ;  but 
to  Laura  and  her  father,  with  their  two  wearing  secrets,  it 
was  a  season  of  rest  which  they  were  glad  of.  They  both 
pursued  the  same  plan,  the  foolish  old  plan  we  have  all 
pursued  in  turn  :  making  believe  because  our  trouble  does 
not  make  itself  heard,  that  it  is  getting  distant,  while  we 
know  well  all  the  time  that  it  is  creeping  steadily  nearer. 
They  both  succeeded  pretty  well,  and  were  gay  enough, 
riding  together  along  the  sands,  or  up  aloft  on  the  moor ; 
but  their  old  confidence  in  one  another  was  gone,  and  they 
knew  it. 

Neither  of  them  chose  to  know  the  exact  day  of  Maria's 
marriage.  No  one  ever  talked  of  it  except  Lady  South- 
molton,  who  did  so  occasionally  on  principle,  to  show  that 
a  thing  to  which  she  had  given  her  approval  was  of  neces- 
sity a  perfectly  eligible  subject  of  conversation  :  however, 
she  did  not  know  the  day,  and  no  one  else  cared  to  en- 
quire. Sir  Charles  had  heard  so  little  about  it  that  he  be- 
gan to  hope  it  was  all  over  and  done.  One  day  Laura 
followed  him  into  his  justice-room  or  study  after  breakfast, 
and  said — 

"  I  have  heard  from  Constance  Downes,  father.  She  has 
been  to  the  Queen's  ball." 


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"  Oho !  indeed  !  "  said  Sir  Charles.  "  And  is  there  any 
other  news  from  the  gay  folks,  eh  ?  " 

"  Not  much,"  said  Laura,  looking  out  of  the  window. 
"  Lady  Poyntz  and  her  husband  are  at  Ems." 

"  Hem  !  "  said  Sir  Charles.  "  And  when  —  when  did 
the ?" 

"  Wedding  take  place  ?     Last  week." 

"There  was  no  bell-ringing,  why  were  the  bells  not 
rung  ?  " 

"  The  Vicar  found  the  young  men  in  the  belfry  getting 
ready,  and  he  turned  them  all  out,  locked  it  up,  and  took 
the  keys  away.  He  said  that  if  one  of  them  liked  to  be 
locked  in  by  himself  he  might  toll,  but  that  there  should  be 
no  chiming." 

"  The  man  is  mad  !  " 

"  Quite  mad  !  " 

So  it  was  all  over.  "  And  a  good  job  too,"  said  (not 
thought}  Sir  Charles  to  himself.  "  They'll  be  able  to  pay 
their  way,  which  is  a  great  thing  in  these  times.  She  hasn't 
done  badly."  Alas  !  Alexander  in  debt  and  Alexander  out 
of  debt  talk  very  differently. 

At  the  end  of  July  all  the  old  set  were  back  again,  with 
the  addition  of  the  Poyntz,  who  came  back  last  of  all.  But 
before  that  a  great  deal  that  was  very  mischievous  and 
sad  had  occurred,  as  we  must  show  you.  "  It  is  very  hard 
for  idle  hands  to  keep  out  of  mischief,"  says  old  Watts. 
Certainly  Miss  Laura,  that  opinionated  and  self-sufficient 
young  lady,  was  exceedingly  idle  this  spring  ;  all  the  more 
solid  of  her  new  books  from  Exeter  lay  unread  on  the 
table ;  while  she,  as  Edie  Ochiltrie  would  say,  went 
"  daundering"  by  burnsides  with"  Maude  "  and  "  Aurora 
Leigh."  Idle  she  was,  certainly,  and  contrived  to  get  into 
a  labyrinth  of  mischief  such  as  is  inconceivable  by  folks 
who  try  to  fight  against  circumstances  in  any  way,  and 'do 
not  altogether  give  up  and  believe  that  "  the  nice  "  is  co- 
existent, conterminous,  and  scientifically  identical  with 
"  the  commonscnsible." 

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Chapter  XXI 

LAURA  had  better,  for  some  reasons,  have  been  in  pen- 
sion in  a  third-class  boarding-house  at  Boulogne,  than  have 
stayed  "  daundering "  there  in  Devonshire  that  spring. 
Her  father  and  she  had  lost  confidence  in  one  another. 
There  was  just  one  little  matter — the  Hammersley  matter, 
to  wit — which  prevented  her  telling  all  things  to  the  Vicar 
as  heretofore  :  a  mere  twopenny-halfpenny  little  business, 
but  one  which  she  was  afraid  to  tell  him,  and  which,  after 
all,  was  no  earthly  business  of  his.  Her  mother  was — her 
mother — a  perfectly  commonplace  woman  ;  and  as  for  her 
grandmother,  good  as  she  was,  and  sensible  according  to 
her  lights,  Laura  had  seen  her  little  store  of  experience  ex- 
hibited so  often,  that  she,  had  she  lived  among  betting-peo- 
ple, might  have  kept  herself  in  gloves,  by  betting  on  what 
her  grandmother  would  say  on  any  given  subject.  The 
only  woman  who  seemed  to  have  any  originality  in  her 
whatever  was  old  Elspie,  her  nurse,  the  most  romantic  and 
superstitious  old  trot  in  the  three  kingdoms. 

And  I  must,  sooner  or  later,  come  en  visage  with  my 
reader  about  another  matter.  Let  us  get  it  over,  and  let 
the  reader  make  the  worst  of  it,  or  the  best  of  it,  as  he 
chooses.  Laura  was  thinking  a  great  deal  too  much  about 
this  Hammersley  —  this  incomprehensible  young  preu.v 
chevalier — a  great  deal  too  much. 

It  is  hard  to  blame  her  much.  Of  course  she  was  very 
indiscreet  in  ever  thinking  of  him  for  a  moment,  but  her 
father  was  more  indiscreet  still  ;  knowing  what  he  knew 
about  the  man's  quasi-position,  he  should  not  have  allowed 
her  so  much  intercourse  with  this  splendid  Falconbridge. 
But  debt  and  anxiety  had  clouded  his  mind  ;  and,  more- 
over, this  young  fellow  was  getting  very  dear  to  him.  He 
had  wished  for  a  son,  but  had  never  had  one.  His  daugh- 
ter was  not  to  him  what  she  had  been,  and  in  this  young 

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man  the  old  gentleman  seemed  to  see  the  son  of  his  im- 
agination. Hammersley's  continual  affectionate  attention 
to  him  was  very  pleasant ;  there  was  such  grace  about  the 
young  fellow  that,  even  when  Hammersley  bullied  him  and 
ordered  him  about,  he,  on  the  whole,  liked  it,  and  did  not 
rebel.  It  was  so  well  and  so  kindly  done,  so  well  and  so 
gently,  that  Sir  Charles,  who  thought  he  had  but  few  years' 
happiness  before  him,  delighted  in  this  young  man's  pres- 
ence, and,  forgetting  the  unhappy  circumstances  of  his  birth, 
treated  him  as  an  equal,  contrasting  him  favourably  with 
his  half-brother,  "  Harry  the  Wicked,"  with  his  sallow  ruth- 
less face,  and  his  cold  blue  eye ;  and  Robert  (now  in 
India),  whom  he  remembered  a  fierce,  savage,  but  beautiful 
boy — a  boy  more  disagreeable  for  the  contrast  of  his  won- 
drous beauty  and  his  uncontrollable  temper.  "  I  am  in 
the  hands  of  Harry  Poyntz,"  he  used  to  think ;  "  and  if 
Harry  dies  before  my  ruin,  I  am  in  the  hands  of  that  young 
fiend  Robert.  I  wish  this  fellow  were  other  than  he  is.  I 
could  plead  to  him" 

Not  one  word  of  what  was  passing  did  Laura's  mother 
or  grandmother  know.  They  had  not  given  Hammersley 
two  thoughts  since  he  had  first  come ;  and  even  if  they  had 
done  so,  the  possibility  of  Laura's  being  indiscreet  enough 
to  interchange  words  with  him  never  entered  into  their 
heads.  But  they  noticed  that  Laura  was  always  with  her 
father  now;  that  she  had  given  up  all  her  old  orderly 
habits,  and  came  and  went  like  a  wild  sea-bird  on  the 
shore.  All  this  gave  her  mother  great  uneasiness. 

"  I  have  lost  all  power  over  her.  I  dare  not  say  anything 
to  her.  I  wonder  if  she  means  to  have  Hatterleigh.  This 
don't  look  much  like  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  elder  lady,  "  in  my  opinion  she  has 
made  up  her  mind  to  have  him,  and  is  enjoying  her  free- 
dom before  going  into  harness.  That  is  it,  depend  upon 
it.  There  is  not  a  more  sensible  girl  in  England  ;  she  is 
far  too  wise  to  refuse  such  an  establishment  as  Grimwood." 

Lady  Emily  could  only  hope  so.    She  knew  Laura  a 

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great  deal  better  than  her  mother.  Many  a  furious  out- 
burst of  childish  temper  had  been  concealed  from  the  old 
lady,  and  remained  a  secret  between  mother  and  daughter. 
Laura  could  be  headstrong  when  she  chose,  and  she  chose 
now. 

Meanwhile  she  looked  on  herself  as  a  model  of  discre- 
tion, and  indeed  never,  first  or  last,  did  she  take  any  step 
unworthy  of  a  lady.  She  kept  Hammersley  carefully  at 
bay,  and  very  rarely  spoke  to  him ;  on  one  or  two  occa- 
sions she  had  so  far  forgotten  who  he  was  as  to  enter  into 
conversation  with  him,  as  whenHuxtable  overtook  them  in 
the  park  ;  at  these  times  she  found  him  to  be,  just  what  he 
looked,  one  of  the  most  charming  fellows  she  had  ever  met. 
Of  course  she  saw  he  was  a  gentleman.  She  would  have 
given  a  great  deal  to  know  his  history,  but  her  father  and 
mother  kept  that  (at  least  all  they  knew  of  it)  to  themselves. 

Her  father,  during  these  months,  was  as  restless  and  as 
reticent  as  herself.  The  passion  almost  the  pursuit  of  his 
life  had  been  horse-riding.  Save  that  he  had  done  his 
duty  as  landlord  and  magistrate,  he  had  done  nothing  else. 
Now,  with  a  prospect  of  Baden  or  Wiesbaden  before  him — 
now  that  he  saw  that  it  only  rested  with  an  utter  scoundrel 
to  ruin  him,  and  to  make  him  walk  afoot  till  he  was  too  old 
to  ride — he  took  to  his  horses  and  his  dogs  more  diligently 
than  ever  ;  his  grooms  and  his  dog-feeders  acquired  new 
importance  in  his  eyes.  The  poor  gentleman  saw  that  his 
power  over  them  was  ephemeral — that  the  time  would  soon 
come  when  they  would  call  him  master  no  longer.  He  had 
always  been  a  kind  and  indulgent  master — now  he  grew 
kinder  and  more  indulgent  than  ever.  Anxiety  acts  on 
some  souls  like  that.  Poor  Sir  Charles  knew  that  his  reign 
was  coming  to  an  end,  and  wished  that  his  subjects  should 
have  none  but  kindly  recollections  of  the  banished  prince. 
Laura  had  got  hold  of  a  foolish  negro  song,  "  So  Early  in 
the  Morning  !  "  a  very  pretty  little  song  too — 

Master's  dead  and  gone  to  rest, 
Of  all  the  masters  he  was  best 

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She  sang  it  once,  but  he  asked  her  not  to  sing  it  again. 
He  gave  every  reason  but  the  right  one  ;  it  was  silly — the 
lilt  was  a  mere  vulgar  jingle,  and  so  on.  Poor  fellow ! 
the  truth  was  that  the  silly  pretty  song  touched  him  too 
nearly. 

Ah !  poor  fellow ;  if  he  would  only  have  told  the  truth 
to  Laura !  He  could  not  tell  it  to  his  wife  or  Lady 
Southmolton — he  dared  not !  They,  had  they  taken  any 
pains  to  calculate  matters,  might  have  found  it  out  for 
themselves ;  but  no.  Sometimes  he  asked  himself,  now 
and  afterwards,  did  they  ever  guess  or  care  to  guess  the 
truth  ?  They  certainly  never  gave  any  sign.  The  house- 
hold, so  utterly  bankrupt,  was  kept  up  in  the  same  re- 
spectable manner  :  prayers  at  nine — lunch  at  two  ;  service 
in  the  hall  on  wet  Sunday  mornings — sermon  every  Sun- 
day evening,  wet  or  dry,  in  the  dining-room  at  nine  ;  the 
whole  dead-and-alive  old  routine  kept  up  as  though  there 
was  no  merciless  creditor,  as  though  ruin  were  not  knock- 
ing at  the  door.  It  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  told 
Laura  first  than  last. 

But  he  could  not.  The  dark  nameless  secret  in  Laura's 
heart  showed  itself  in  her  eyes,  and  Sir  Charles  saw  that 
there  was  a  cloud  between  them.  He  knew  he  had 
sinned,  and  sinned  deeply,  in  the  matter  of  Maria  Hux- 
table ;  and  he  thought  that  the  indecision  in  Laura's  eye, 
the  unwillingness  with  which  she  met  his  look  arose  from 
contempt  —  that  she  could  not  forgive  him  about  that 
matter.  He  knew  that  he  was  guilty,  but  he  never  dreamt 
that  she  could  have  anything  to  conceal  too.  He  was  so 
unused  to  having  anything  to  conceal,  that  now,  when  he 
had  erred,  and  found  himself,  through  circumstances,  left 
without  a  friend,  he  got  cowardly  and  reckless. 

But  though  Sir  Charles  had  no  more  confidence  with 
his  daughter,  still  he  had  her.  Though  his  position  was 
a  fiction,  an  air-raised  castle  which  might  tumble  down 
any  moment,  still  he  had  Laura.  She  was  his  daughter, 
the  beauty  of  Devon,  the  best  horsewoman  and  the  best- 

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trained  lady  in  the  county.  And  she  loved  him  still,  in 
spite  of  this  cloud  between  them.  It  would  all  vanish 
soon,  into  thin  air ;  and  after  that  the  dreary  hot  white 
streets  of  Baden.  Meanwhile  he  had  his  daughter,  his 
dogs,  his  grooms,  and  his  horses,  and  no  one  knew  any- 
thing ;  he  need  not  yet  walk  afoot  and  see  other  folks  on 
horseback, 

He  never  was  out  of  the  saddle  now.  He  would  ride  as 
long  as  he  could.  As  for  Laura,  she  would  ride  you  from 
cock-crow  to  curfew,  and  she  rode  with  him,  loving  him 
as  he  loved  her,  while  neither  dared  say  the  few  words 
which  would  have  restored  confidence.  In  either  case  it 
would  have  been  too  terrible. 

So  these  two  reprobates  went  about  on  horseback — 
away  before  prayers,  home  too  late  for  dinner — committing 
every  sin  of  omission  conceivable.  The  Vicar  came  down 
on  Laura  for  missing  church  on  Easter  Eve,  pathetically 
noticed  her  entire  neglect  of  the  Easter  decorations,  and 
plaintively  rebuked  her  for  her  backslidings.  Laura  gave 
a  little  laugh,  which  puzzled  the"  Vicar,  and  promised 
amendment.  After  he  was  gone  she  laughed  again, 
louder.  How  quaint  his  language  seemed  to  her !  His 
rebuke,  earnest  though  it  was,  seemed  taken  out  of  some 
book  ;  not  a  word  in  it  seemed  wrong.  Vet  all  that  had 
had  a  meaning  for  her  three  months  ago.  How  far 
off  seemed  Christmas  —  how  long  she  had  lived  since 
then !  Was  the  rapt  worshipper  of  Christmas  the  same 
being  as  the  wild  gipsy  -  like  Laura  of  Easter  ?  She 
laughed  again ;  there  was  nothing  irreverent  or  mocking 
in  her  laugh  ;  it  was  merely  a  laugh  of  wonder,  such  as  a 
savage  gives  when  he  sees  a  new  toy. 

But  her  riding  habit  was  on,  and  her  father  was  waiting 
for  her  in  the  stableyard. 


Leighton  Court 


Chapter  XXII 

So  Laura  —  still  laughing,  still  vaguely  puzzled  about 
the  change  in  herself,  still  vaguely  wondering  where  it 
would  lead — went  into  the  stableyard,  with  the  skirts  of 
her  habit  gathered  in  her  hand.  Her  father  had  mounted 
"  The  Elk,"  and  was  at  the  farther  end  of  the  yard.  Ham- 
mersley  was  leaning  against  his  leg,  and  talking  to  him, 
with  the  bridle  of  the  horse  he  was  evidently  going  to 
ride,  over  his  arm.  Laura  looked,  and  saw  that  the  horse 
he  had  appropriated  was  the  very  horse  she  had  ordered 
for  herself.  The  grooms  meanwhile  were  bringing  out 
for  her  another  horse,  a  horse  she  did  not  like  particu- 
larly. She  rebelled. 

"  I  ordered  Avoca,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  not  go  out  to- 
day, on  this  horse." 

One  of  the  grooms  said  that  "  Mr.  Hammersley  had 
countermanded  the  order,  and  had  said  that  Miss  was  to 
ride  the  chestnut." 

And  at  the  same  moment  Hammersley  said  to  her 
father :  "  I  want  to  ride  that  horse  to-day.  His  mouth 
has  been  pulled  about  sadly  lately ;  I  want  to  ride  him 
myself." 

This  was  going  too  far.  Sir  Charles  was  very  angry. 
He  said,  in  Hammersley's  hearing  alone, — 

"  You  are  taking  liberties.  I  will  allow  no  liberties.  Do 
you  think,  because — because — that  I  will  allow  you  to 
speak  in  that  way  ?  I  know  the  secret  of  your  birth, 
Hammersley,  and  I  have  treated  you  as  if  you  were  the 
first-born.  But  I  will  not  stand  this." 

"  I  am  a  fool,"  said  Hammersley  ;  and  he  went  quietly 
forward,  and  told  the  grooms  to  change  the  saddles,  with- 
out looking  at  Laura.  They  obeyed  him  in  a  moment ; 
they  knew  who  was  practically  master.  When  the  ar- 
rangement was  accomplished  he  went  back  to  Sir  Charles, 


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without  once  offering  to  put  Laura  on  her  horse.  One  of 
the  grooms  did  that. 

Sir  Charles  and  he  had  time  for  a  minute's  private  con- 
versation, away  from  the  others.  Sir  Charles  was  still  an- 
gry, but  his  anger  was  passing  away.  He  said  to  Ham- 
mersley :  "  You  forced  me  to  speak  to  you.  And  there  is 
another  thing  I  wish  to  say.  From  your  manner,  you 
seem  to  assert  an  equality  with  us,  which,  under  the  "cir- 
cumstances, you  are  scarcely  warranted  in  assuming.  Do 
you  know  anything  which  others  do  not  ?  Is  there  any 
chance  of  your  assuming  the  place  in  the  world  to  which 
you  are  fitted?  If  so,  I  will  serve  you  with  purse  and 
with  influence  to  the  utmost  of  my  power." 

Hammersley  pressed  his  hand.  "  Let  it  be  as  it  is  for 
the  present."  They  had  time  to  say  no  more. 

To-day  Sir  Charles  and  his  daughter  were  bent  on  an 
aimless  expedition  to  the  wildest  and  farthest  of  their  farms, 
on  the  very  moor  itself  —  Fernworthy :  a  solitary  stone 
house,  in  the  centre  of  about  eighty  acres  of  poor  arable 
land,  reclaimed  from  the  moor,  lying  at  the  edge  of  the 
great  Wysclith  bog,  at  the  sources  of  the  river,  in  the  heart 
of  the  mountains.  There  were  some  puppies  at  walk 
there,  and  he  made  believe  he  wanted  to  see  them,  so  as 
to  get  a  day's  riding  with  his  daughter.  By  a  similar  kind 
of  self-deception,  he  persuaded  himself  that  his  new  fa- 
vourite, Hammersley,  had  better  come  too  and  see  them. 
The  pad-groom  was  ordered  back,  and  Hammersley  fol- 
lowed. 

So  they  rode  away  from  the  sound  of  the  sea,  through 
the  deep  red  lanes,  through  the  rich  overarching  boscage 
of  the  first  band  of  country ;  and  then  through  a  long-drawn 
valley  of  yellow  clay,  through  which  the  blue  slate  peeped 
here  and  there,  among  world-old  oaks,  thickly  clustered, 
underlaid  with  holly — the  home  of  the  woodcock.  Then, 
facing  on  to  the  culminating  height  of  the  slate  hills,  they 
drove  across  the  desolate  scratch-and-scramble-farmed,  in- 
fanticide-producing twenty-acre  freehold,  ten-bushel  coun- 


Leighton  Court 

try,  which  lies  between  the  thirty-bushel  civilisation  of  the 
red  lands,  and  the  vast  barbarous  granite  desert  beyond  ; 
lastly  they  came  to  the  country  of  heather  and  bleating 
peewits — to  the  hot  silence  of  the  moor ;  Wysclith,  five 
hundred  feet  below  them,  hungrily  gnawing  at  the  ribs  of 
the  earth  to  win  his  passage  to  the  sea. 

But  as  they  rose  to  this  height,  great  clouds — which  un- 
poetical  folks  call  "  cabbage-headed,"  but  which  more  sen- 
timental folks  call  either  "  blue  piled  thunder-loft,"  or  else 
"Alp-formed  cirrocumuli "  —  kept  rising  also  from  the 
south-east,  and  now  hovered  so  closely  overhead  that  Sir 
Charles  remarked,  as  if  there  were  the  least  necessity  for 
doing  so,  that  they  were  going  to  have  a  thunderstorm. 

Wysclith  only  makes  one  great  bound  or  waterfall  in  his 
passage  from  the  hills  to  the  sea,  and  that  is  in  his  very 
youth,  shortly  after  he  leaves  the  bog,  and  before  he  gets 
into  that  great  grey  glen — the  "  glen  of  the  hundred  voices  " 
as  we  have  called  it — which  stills  his  roaring  by  degrees 
till  he  comes  into  the  softer  strata  below.  The  ford  across 
to  Fernworthy  crosses  the  infant  stream  about  one  hun- 
dred yards  above  the  waterfall ;  and  as  they  splashed 
through  it,  they  saw  the  little  trout  scouring  away  in  all 
directions  over  the  yellow  gravel,  and  heard  the  first  thun- 
der-crash over  Fern  Tor. 

There  is  no  need  to  describe  Fernworthy,  because  we' 
shall  not  want  it  again.  Yet  we  will  give  three  lines  to  a 
genuine  moor-farm.  A  low  grey  stone  house,  with  a  wall 
enclosing  what  our  Scotch  brothers  call  "  policies  "  (and 
why  ?) ;  low  granite  hills,  breaking  sometimes  into  low 
weathered  tors,  blocking  the  horizon ;  a  dozen  ill-grown 
fir-trees,  dogs  which  bark  all  day,  and,  for  want  of  any- 
thing to  do,  hunt  the  cats  (with  a  distinct  understanding, 
however,  on  the  part  of  the  cats).  Besides  this,  muck, 
mess,  mad  mismanagement,  cider  and  brandy,  immorality 
and  ignorance  :  you  must  go  to  the  backwoods  to  match 
some  moor-farms. 

The  farmer,  a  vast,  untidy,  good-humoured,  slab-sided 

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giant,  held  the  gate  open  for  them.  "  You'm  just  in  time, 
Sir  Charles,"  he  said.  "  Listen  to  mun  ;  and  how  she 
stinketh !  mussy." 

The  "  she  "  referred  to  the  air,  which  certainly  deserved 
to  be  so  spoken  of,  for  a  sulphurous  electrical  smell  pen- 
etrated their  nostrils  most  disagreeably.  Hammersley 
took  their  horses  to  the  stables,  and  he  had  hardly  come 
into  the  kitchen  when  the  rain  began  to  roar  upon  the 
roof,  and  the  first  red  blink  of  lightning  was  visible  in  the 
room. 

It  was  a  very  fearful  storm,  such  as  the  livers  in  the 
lowlands  seldom  remembered,  but  which  were  frequent 
enough,  said  the  farmer,  among  the  hills.  Laura  sat  be- 
side her  father  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  away  from  the 
chimney ;  and  though  she  to  a  certain  extent  disliked  the 
glare  of  the  lightning,  which  was  almost  perpetual,  she 
could  not  help  looking  at  the  window ;  for  Hammersley 
stood  there,  looking  coolly  out  into  the  livid  blaze  perfectly 
unconcerned.  At  each  variety  in  the  lightning  his  face  as- 
sumed a  different  colour — now  green,  now  purple,  now 
flushed  with  red  ;  and  as  she  watched,  she  began  to  fancy 
that  his  face  was  changing  rapidly  from  one  fierce  passion 
to  another  with  a  grotesque  diablerie  exceedingly  terrify- 
ing. At  last,  during  a  flash  of  lightning  more  white, 
brighter,  and  more  prolonged  than  the  rest,  which  was  ac- 
companied by  three  or  four  sharp  snaps,  and  then  a  roar 
which  shook  the  house,  she  saw  his  face  take  the  colour 
and  the  rigidity  of  death. 

Her  nerve  gave  way,  and  she  screamed  out,  "  Oh,  he's 
killed  ! "  and  sprang  towards  him.  She  had  seized  his 
arm  before  she  was  aware  of  it ;  and  he  turned  very  coolly 
towards  her,  saying,  in  his  usual  voice,  looking  very  stead- 
ily at  her, — 

"  It  was  the  effect  of  the  lightning  on  my  face,  I  dare  say, 
Miss.  I  will  come  away  from  the  window." 

Laura  felt  a  trifle  silly  at  the  exhibition  of  a  self-posses- 
sion greater  than  her  own,  and  began  wondering  whether 

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or  no  she  hadn't  made  a  fool  of  herself.  She  thought 
more  of  this  question  on  finding  that  her  father  had  sud- 
denly tuned  his  fiddle  up  a  full  octave  higher,  and  had  be- 
come afflicted  with  a  somewhat  offensively  polite  silence. 
Laura  was  terribly  frightened. 

If  her  father's  eyes  had  been  for  one  moment  opened, 
they  were  very  soon  shut  again.  I  believe  that  in  the  terror 
of  what  happened  instantly  after,  he  forgot  the  little  cir- 
cumstance altogether,  or,  if  not,  that  it  dwindled  into  insig- 
nificance. The  storm  was  soon  over,  and  they  rode  away. 

The  ford  before  mentioned,  where  they  had  seen  the  trout 
scudding  over  the  yellow  quartz  gravel,  was  now  a  whirling 
porter-coloured  torrent  of  uncertain  depth.  Sir  Charles 
pulled  up  at  it.  When  they  passed  before  they  could  hear 
the  noise  of  the  waters  in  the  glen  below ;  now  every  sound, 
even  that  of  the  thunder,  which  was  still  growling  in  the 
N.E.,  was  swallowed  up  in  the  roar  of  the  waterfall,  which 
was  a  bare  hundred  yards  to  the  right ;  he  could  see  the 
water  shelve  away  smooth  and  glassy  and  disappear,  while 
from  the  chasm  the  spray  rose  and  floated  among  the 
rocks,  telling  of  the  hell  of  waters  below. 

This  was  all  uncommonly  pretty.  He  had  an  eye  for 
scenery,  and  admired  it,  but  as  a  master  of  hounds  he  was 
obliged  to  call  it  a  very  ugly  thing.  He  wondered  aloud 
how  deep  it  was. 

"  I'll  see,  sir,"  said  Hammersley,  and  went  clattering  and 
splashing  into  it  then  and  there.  His  big  Irish  horse  went 
at  it  in  true  Irish  fashion.  It  looked  dangerous,  and  there 
was  a  chance  of  being  killed,  and  so  "  at  it  you  go  ;  "  and 
he  got  through.  It  wasn't  half  so  bad  as  it  looked.  The 
water  had  barely  reached  to  his  feet  —  they  were  only 
splashed.  Sir  Charles  and  Laura  instantly  followed,  "  The 
Elk"  striding  through  it  like  an  elephant,  and  Laura's 
smaller  horse  seeming  to  make  as  little  of  it  as  the  elephant- 
ine Elk  himself. 

The  Australians  are  probably  the  most  reckless  riders  in 
the  world,  and  the  younger  of  them  think  nothing  so  fine 

105 


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as  swimming  a  flooded  river.  But  you  find  that  the  older 
they  get  the  less  they  like  it.  After  they  have  had  a  horse 
"  capsize  "  under  them  a  few  times  they  get  rid  of  their 
superfluous  vitality  by  dangerous  forms  of  steeplechasing, 
and  "  funk  "  the  water. 

Who  can  tell  at  what  particular  moment  what  we  call  an 
"accident"  begins?  Something  suddenly  happens,  and 
while  people  are  wondering  what  is  the  matter,  limbs  are 
broken  and  lives  lost.  The  train  begins  to  jump,  and  you 
have  not  time  to  look  up  from  your  Saturday  Review  be- 
fore you  find  yourself  amidst  a  ruin  of  wood  and  iron,  with 
a  lady  screaming  herself  to  death  before  you,  and  the  last 
piece  of  fun  in  the  small-print  article  in  full  possession  of 
your  brain.  You  watch  a  dipping  sail  in  the  Solent,  and 
think  it  is  dipping  too  deep ;  and  before  you  can  realise 
that  anything  has  happened,  the  boatmen  bring  you  ashore 
a  trembling  idiot  who,  an  hour  ago,  was  a  gallant  young 
man,  and  tell  you  that  he  was  to  have  been  married  to  the 
young  lady  who  was  just  drowned,  and  that  he  held  her  up 
until  his  arm  gave  way,  and  he  was  obliged  to  let  her  go. 
This  is  too  terribly  true  ! 

Sir  Charles  saw  Laura  go  safely  on  before  him  till  she 
was  almost  at  the  other  side,  when  her  horse  seemed  to 
stumble  and  feel  the  pressure  of  the  current ;  for  he  rolled 
on  his  side,  and  threw  Laura  beneath  him.  When  he  saw 
the  horse's  near  hoofs  rising  to  the  surface,  and  Laura's 
arms  only  appearing  above  the  water,  and  her  little  white 
gloves  clutching  about  at  anything  and  everything,  then  he 
realised  the  fact  that  there  was  an  accident,  and  a  terrible 
one  ;  and  tried  to  spur  "  The  Elk  "  towards  her,  and  tow- 
ards the  destruction  which  awaited  them  both  in  the  seeth- 
ing cataract  below. 

But  the  good  horse  only  floundered  through  the  ford, 
and,  getting  on  land,  burst  into  one  of  his  pachydermatous 
gallops ;  by  the  time  Sir  Charles,  half-mad  with  terror,  had 
turned  him  and  had  got  back  to  the  bank,  he  only  saw  this — 

Laura's  horse  landing  himself  about  ten  yards  above  the 

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waterfall ;  Hammersley's  horse  grazing,  and  Hammersley 
himself  in  the  water,  with  his  feet  still  off  the  ground  hold- 
ing on  to  an  oak-root,  with  his  arm  round  Laura's  waist. 
Their  faces  were  close  together,  and  they  were  within  five 
seconds  of  death,  and  he  was  encouraging  her  to  hold  on. 
She  held  on.  Sir  Charles  shouted  wildly  to  them  :  to  her 
to  save  herself  for  his  sake — to  Hammersley  to  save  her, 
giving  wild  promises,  which  were  luckily  wasted,  as  they 
neither  of  them  heard  him.  Before  he  had  time  to  think 
of  what  he  had  said,  they  got  their  feet  upon  a  shelf  of 
granite,  and  came  on  land  safe. 

Laura  was  dripping  from  head  to  foot ;  she  was  trem- 
bling too,  but  she  was  also  in  "  a  mood,"  as  her  father  saw 
in  a  moment.  He  who  had  watched  her  so  long  and  so 
well  saw  that  she  was  agitated  by  something  more  than 
sheer  physical  fright  at  her  terrible  danger.  He  saw  that 
she  was  in  a  mood,  and  guessed  the  cause,  sagacious 
creature ! 

"  Laura,  dear,  you  can't  blame  me.  How  could  I  guess 
that  your  horse  would  have  stumbled  ?  I  tried  to  ride  down 
and  help  you,  but  this  old  brute  of  a  horse  wouldn't  turn." 

"  I  don't  blame  you  at  all,  father ;  I  have  no  one  but 
myself  to  blame.  Bring  me  my  horse,  if  you  please,  as 
quick  as  you  can.  Father,  I  am  frightened  ;  take  me  home 
to  my  mother." 

Hammersley  had  caught  her  horse  and  brought  it  up, 
holding  the  reins  of  his  own  horse  by  his  arm,  and  stand- 
ing by  her  horse's  head ;  he  spoke  first, — 

"  Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  put  Miss  Seckerton  on 
her  horse,  sir  ?  I  have  frightened  her  a  little  pulling  her 
out  of  the  water." 

Sir  Charles  did  so,  appreciating  the  high-bred  instinct  of 
the  young  man.  The  moment  they  were  all  mounted,  the 
young  gentleman,  looking  as  sulky  as  a  thunderstorm, 
said : — 

"  I  think  I  had  better  ride  home,  sir,  and  tell  them  that 
Miss  Seckerton  is  wet  and  frightened."  And  without  any 

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more  words  away  he  went,  as  if  he  was  a  gentleman,  with- 
out waiting  for  leave. 

"  Laura,  dear,"  said  Sir  Charles,  who  had  got  very  much 
afraid  of  her  since  the  cessation  of  their  confidence,  "  let 
us  go  to  the  Downes  ;  you  are  wet  through,  and  the  house- 
keeper will  rig  you  out  in  Constance's  things  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour." 

"  I  asked  you  to  take  me  to  my  mother,  father ! " 

"  But  your  chest,  dear  ?  " 

"  Take  me  to  my  mother  ;  I  want  to  go  to  my  mother !  " 


Chapter  XXIII 

BUT  now  came  a  crisis  in  matters  which  led  to  strange 
results.  Poor  Laura  will  remember  the  i7th  of  June  as 
long  as  she  lives ;  and  there  are  more  still  who  will  re- 
member the  next  day  quite  as  well. 

What  encouragement  poor  Hammersley  had  ever  re- 
ceived, which  induced  him  to  commit  the  most  fatal  act  of 
folly  he  did,  we  shall  never  know.  From  Laura  certainly 
none ;  she  had  scarcely  thanked  him  for  saving  her  life. 
For  the  present  we  must  suppose  that  Sir  Charles  had  so 
far  spoilt  him,  as  to  make  him  so  utterly  forget  his  posi- 
tion, and  what  was  due  to  Laura,  as  to  speak  to  her  in 
the  way  he  did. 

It  was  very  late  in  the  June  evening,  and  the  few  work- 
men who  had  been  employed  in  doing  a  few  stingy  repairs 
in  preparation  for  Sir  Harry  and  Lady  Poyntz  were  gone, 
and  the  Castle  grounds  were  left  in  seclusion.  Laura  went 
over  to  walk  there. 

We  know  now  that  Hammersley  had  watched  her  and 
crossed  by  the  bridge  higher  up,  for  another  watched  and 
followed  him,  impelled  by  an  overwhelming  curiosity. 

He  met  her  in  a  dark  walk,  and,  going  to  her,  spoke  to 
her  more  familiarly  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  He  did 

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not  go  far — she  did  not  give  him  time.  She  stopped  him  the 
very  instant  he  had  gone  far  enough  to  make  it  necessary, 
but  did  not  let  him  go  a  step  too  far.  She  had  not  been 
well-formed  for  nothing  ;  no  one  could  do  it  better  than  she. 

She  was  very  quiet  indeed  with  him.  She  first  pointed 
out  the  extreme  act  of  folly  of  which  he  had  been  guilty, 
and  then  dwelt  on  the  extreme  degradation  and  aimless- 
ness  of  his  present  way  of  life. 

"  If  you  are  what  you  seem,"  she  said  "  (I  mean  a  gen- 
tleman), throw  off  this  miserable  disguise  and  way  of  life, 
and  do  something  worthy  of  yourself — something  which 
will  make  your  fellow-men  respect  you.  Take  the  advice 
of  one  who  wishes  you  sincerely  well,  and  go  from  here 
at  once.  Now  go ;  and,  believe  me,  I  shall  be  always 
glad  to  hear  of  your  welfare.  Good-bye  !  " 

He  went  quickly,  without  a  word.  When  she  turned 
round  to  see  if  he  was  gone  she  was  alone  in  the  gather- 
ing gloom,  and  saw  him  no  more. 

"  Could  her  grandmother  have  been  more  discreet  ?  " 
was  the  first  thing  she  asked  herself.  The  answer  her  con- 
science gave  her  was,  "  Certainly  not !  "  The  very  echoes 
of  the  summer's  evening  seemed  to  tell  of  "  Ccelebs  in 
Search  of  a  Wife "  and  other  high-toned  books  of  that 
kind.  She  recalled  every  word  she  had  said.  It  was  in 
her  grandmother's  best  style  —  nothing  could  be  more 
eminently  satisfactory.  And  then  she  began  to  cry. 

As  soon  as  she  had  moved  away  to  a  safe  distance,  no 
other  person  than  old  Tom  Squire  crept  cautiously  out,  and 
looked  after  her  round  the  corner.  He  was  very  nearly 
caught,  for  Laura  turned  and  looked  back  suddenly  ;  and 
he  saw  that  she  was  crying  bitterly. 

"  What !  looking  back  to  see  if  he'd  come  again,  eh  ?  " 
the  old  fellow  chuckled.  "  There'd  be  a  fine  to-do  if  the 
lad  had  brains  to  follow  you  now,  my  young  lady.  Well, 
if  gentlefolks  don't  know  their  own  minds  it's  no  business 
of  mine ;  but  he  shall  know  of  this,  though  he  breaks  my 
head  for  watching  !  " 

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Chapter  XXIV 

THOSE  dreadfully  inexorable  people  the  chemists  insist 
that  there  is  just  as  much  oxygen  in  the  atmosphere  on 
one  day  as  there  is  on  another,  but  it  is  very  hard  to  be- 
lieve. They  make  up  their  account  with  ozone,  which  is 
a  very  nasty  thing.  It  is  hard  that  one  may  not  believe,  in 
this  age  of  toleration,  that  there  is  not  more  oxygen  in  the 
air  on  a  brilliant  crystalline  morning,  than  on  a  dim,  wild, 
murky  autumn  evening.  However,  they  are  right,  one  sup- 
poses, and  air  cannot  be  oxygenated  like  water  ;  otherwise 
the  atmosphere  round  Leighton  Court  must  have  been 
represented  by  a  fresh  formula,  on  the  morning  after 
Laura's  adventure  in  the  Castle  shrubbery. 

There  was  something  in  the  air  that  morning,  however, 
ozone  or  barometric  pressure  or  something  else,  which  got 
into  the  lungs  of  Sir  Charles  Seckerton,  as  he  lay  in  bed, 
with  his  window  open  as  usual,  and  made  him  get  up  and 
shave  at  seven,  and  moreover  caused  him  to  ring  up  Lady 
Emily's  maid,  and  send  her  to  Laura's  room  to  challenge 
her  to  a  gallop  on  the  sands  before  breakfast. 

The  lady's-maid  —  a  most  superior  woman,  who 
"  messed  "  alone  with  old  Elspie  the  nurse,  since  a  great 
quarrel  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  which  has  nothing  to 
do  with  this  story — answered  the  bell  with  wonderful 
alacrity,  raid  before  Sir  Charles  had  time  to  deliver  his 
message,  delivered  her  own :  to  wit,  that  the  huntsman 
and  the  stud-groom  had  been  waiting  in  the  servants'-hall 
for  him  since  six,  and  that  she  believed  there  had  been  an 
accident. 

"  An  accident !     To  whom  ?  " 

One  of  the  grooms,  or  helpers,  or  some  one  of  the  stable- 
people  was  drowned,  she  believed— young  Hammersley, 
she  thought.  She  belonged  to  the  female  side  of  the  house, 
and  shared  in  the  opposition  to  horse-riding  in  any  form, 


Leighton  Court 

which  was  their  creed,  and  which  had  led  to  the  secession 
of  her  and  Elspie  from  the  housekeeper's  and  steward's 
room. 

"  Go  and  fetch  them  up  instantly,"  said  Sir  Charles. 
"And  don't  wake  Miss  Seckerton  on  any  account  whatever." 

On  ordinary  occasions  Madam  would  have  as  soon  had 
her  dinner  in  the  servants'-hall  as  show  up  any  of  the 
"  stable-people."  This  time,  however,  she  made  no  further 
objection  than  gathering  her  petticoats  round  her  and 
sniffing ;  she  wanted  to  hear  the  news. 

"  Good  heavens !  what  has  happened,  Dickson  ?  "  said 
Sir  Charles  to  the  stud-groom,  who  stood  forwardest. 

"  Mr.  Squire  will  explain,  Sir  Charles,"  he  said  ;  "  I  am 
only  here  to  make  my  story  good  about  the  horse." 

Sir  Charles  glanced  impatiently  at  the  terrier-faced  little 
huntsman,  and  said,  "  Go  on." 

He  still  kept  in  the  back,  with  his  grey  eyes  fixed  keenly 
on  Sir  Charles.     He  began  at  once, — 
.    "  Last  night  I  went  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock.     I  had  been 
in  bed  about  ten  minutes,  when  he  came  in  in  a  hurry." 

"He!    Who?     Hammersley? 

The  old  man  nodded.  Sir  Charles  looked  for  a  moment 
from  him  to  Dickson,  and  then  back  again,  as  though  he 
would  ask,  "  Does  he  know  anything  ? "  And  Squire 
shook  his  head  "  No,"  and  went  on, — 

"  He  came  straight  to  my  room  with  a  light,  and  said  at 
once, '  Get  up.  I  must  go  far  and  fast  to-night.  I  want 
"  The  Elk,"  and  I  want  you  to  get  him  for  me,  for,'  he 
said,  '  that  infernal  cross-grained  old  pig  Dickson,'  mean- 
ing him  you  know  (pointing  at  him  with  his  hat),  'would 
never  let  me  have  the  horse  at  this  time  of  night.'  I  im- 
mediately did  as  he  required." 

"  And  I,  Sir  Charles,"  said  Dickson,  pompously,  "  fol- 
lowing the  routine  of  the  establishment,  complied  with  Mr. 
Squire's  astounding  request,  and  sent  out  the  horse." 

"  You  did  perfectly  right,  my  good  Dickson.  You  may 
go  now." 


Leighton  Court 

Dickson  the  astonished  retired,  and  the  old  man  re 
sumed : — 

"  He  got  on  '  The  Elk.'  I  asked  no  questions,  I  durnst. 
He  is  a  Poyntz,  you  know,  or  as  good  as  one  I  should  say, 
and  he  was  in  one  of  his  moods ;  but  knowing  Sir  Harry 
was  nearly  due  home,  I  thought  it  was  a  case  of  good-bye. 
I  waited  to  hear  him  say  it,  but  he  did  not  till  the  very  last ; 
and  then  he  said,  '  I'm  off.  I  can't  stand  this.  Good-bye  ! 
You  shall  hear  of  the  horse.'  And  I  said  nothing.  Then 
he  said,  '  Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you !  Come  here.' 
And  I  came  to  him,  and  he  bent  down  and  kissed  my  fore- 
head." 

A  pause.  Sir  Charles  turned  away,  and  went  on  with 
his  dressing.  The  old  terrier  took  up  his  story  as  soon  as 
he  found  his  voice ;  not  a  moment  before, — 

"  He  turned  to  the  left  out  of  the  Bell  Yard,  and  broke 
into  a  gallop.  Then  I  saw  that  he  was  going  to  try  the 
sands  that  night,  and  I  cried  out,  like  a  man  in  the  falling 
sickness, '  The  tide's  making !  the  tide's  making ! '  Per- 
haps he  did  not  hear,  at  all  events  he  did  not  heed.  I  ran, 
but  what  was  the  good  of  that  ?  I  heard  him  only  a  few 
minutes,  but  I  ran  on,  guessing  which  way  he  had  gone ; 
and  all  I  could  find  of  him  was  the  way  that  the  deer  still 
stood  gazing  as  he  had  startled  them.  I  heard  him  open 
the  gate,  and  rattle  down  the  lane ;  and  when  I  got  to  the 
cliff  above  the  Avon  Sands,  I  saw  that  he  was  lost.  He 
was  three  hundred  yards  out  on  them  going  like  mad,  and 
the  breakers  were  not  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  his  right, 
growling  up  fast  before  a  strongish  south  wind.  That's 
the  last  I  saw  of  him,  and  the  last  any  man  ever  will." 

"Good  God!"  said  Sir  Charles;  "you  don't  actually 
mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Poyntz  is  drowned  ?  I  wouldn't  have 
had  this  happen  for  a  thousand  pounds.  He  was  worth 
the  two  other  brothers  put  together.  What  makes  you 
think  he  is  drowned  ?  " 

"  What  makes  me  think  he  is  drowned,  Sir  Charles  ? 
You  have  me  there.  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  hope  at  all. " 


Leighton  Court 

"  But  hang  it,  man,  it  can't  be  true  ;  it  is  too  horrible  ! 
An  author  wouldn't  dare  to  put  such  a  horrid  thing  in  a 
novel,  except  Scott,  of  course,  who  has  some  devilish  horrid 
things  in  his  novels.  Such  things  don't  happen  in  real  life. 
I  won't  believe  it.  Pish !  I  don't  choose  to  believe  it.  I 
don't  want  to  be  shocked  just  now ;  we  were  going  on 
so  nicely,  as  if  we  weren't  all  walking  blindfold  among 
venetian-glass  ;  and  now  this  comes.  Poyntz  was  no  fool ; 
he  would  have  turned  from  the  tide  and  headed  landward. 
That  horse  would  beat  any  tide  that  ever  flowed.  You  are 
talking  folly ! " 

"  He  is  drowned  and  dead.  You  say  he  was  no  fool. 
He  was  a  madman  last  night ;  and  I  know  they  as  drove 
him  so.  He  got  on  the  Musselbank  and  was  surrounded. 
Why  do  you  talk  nonsense,  Sir  Charles,  about  his  heading 
up  the  bay  ?  Don't  you  know  he  is  dead  ?  Ride  his 
darndest,  and  suppose  the  sands  were  sound,  where  could 
he  possibly  make  in  time  ?  " 

"  Barcombe." 

"  I  was  in  a  boat  as  soon  as  there  was  water  to  carry 
one,  and  I  have  been  all  along  the  other  shore,  to  Barcombe 
and  to  Seamouth,  higher  up,  but  they've  heard  nought  of 
him.  When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead,  Sir  Charles,  you 
will  meet  the  best  of  all  the  Poyntzes,  not  before.  Oh,  my 
noble  boy — oh,  my  noble,  noble  lad  ! " 

Poor  Sir  Charles !  He  tried  to  fight  against  the  prob- 
ability of  its  being  true,  but  facts  were  too  strong  for  him. 
He  had  got  very  fond  of  this  unhappy  young  man,  and  had 
more  than  a  dozen  times  thought  how  well  he  would  have 
liked  such  a  son.  Since  he  had  known  that  his  own  ruin 
was  only  a  matter  of  time,  he  had  relieved  the  ghastly, 
sleepless  watches  of  the  night  by  picturing  in  the  dark, 
when  he  was  afraid  to  turn  and  toss  for  fear  of  arousing 
and  making  anxious  the  innocent  unconscious  wife  at  his 
side,  what  sort  of  a  graceful  home  he  could  make  himself 
at  Wiesbaden  or  Paris ;  and  this  young  Hammersley, 
Poyntz,  or  what  you  choose  to  call  him,  had  always  made 

113 


Leighton  Court 

part  of  the  home-group.  And  now  he  was  dead,  and  in 
this  dreadful  manner ! 

Although  he  felt  certain  that  it  was  true,  yet  he  refused 
to  believe  it.  For  twenty-four  hours  he  was  able  to  say 
to  neighbours  that  he  did  not  believe  it ;  that  the  young 
man  had  gone  off  with  the  horse,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  ;  but  on  the  next  morning  there  was  no  doubt  about 
the  fate  of  Poyntz-Hammersley,  the  nameless  man,  and 
they  searched  no  more. 

Riding  under  the  red  cliffs,  Sir  Charles  and  old  Squire 
carne  upon  a  little  cove  or  bay  of  golden  sand,  which  ran 
up  among  seaweed-grown  rocks  ;  and  here,  with  his  head 
resting  on  a  pillow  of  purple  sea-tang,  they  found  "  The 
Elk  "  drowned  and  dead. 

It  was  as  well.  The  cruel  quicksands  had  done  their 
work  thoroughly.  The  carcass  of  a  drowned  horse  may 
pose  itself  artistically,  and  look  grand  and  noble  for  a  little 
while,  but  nothing  can  make  the  loose  wet  lips  of  a 
drowned  man  look  otherwise  than  horrible.  The  mer- 
maidens  had  kept  their  ghastly  toy  to  themselves ;  or,  to 
put  it  otherwise,  the  horse  had  had  strength  to  struggle 
from  the  shifting  quicksand,  while  the  weaker  man  had 
been  sucked  down  and  buried  for  ever. 


Chapter  XXV 

THE  wild  July  weather  set  in  for  a  few  days  now.  Nat- 
ure generally  gives  us  a  reminder  just  about  the  middle  of 
summer,  that  there  is  something  to  think  of  in  this  Eng- 
lish climate  besides  deep  green  forest  boscage,  and  calm 
cloudless  summer  days.  Generally  about  this  time  she 
comes  tearing  back  in  her  strength,  to  toss  the  boughs 
wildly  to  and  fro,  to  flood  the  streams  and  beat  down  the 
ripening  corn,  and  to  say  plainly,  "  You  English,  you  na- 
tion of  pirates,  you  and  I  are  always  at  war  !  I  am  not 
114 


Leighton  Court 

beaten,  but  will  beat  you  yet.  Here  are  some  wrecks  for 
you ;  I  will  come  again  at  the  equinox,  and  fight  with  you 
all  through  your  long  dreary  winter."  And  then  up  goes 
the  drum  and  cone  from  Peterhead  to  Penzance,  and  the 
telegraph  clicks  out  from  one  end  of  Britain  to  another — 
"  Here  she  comes  ;  look  out !  "  And  those  of  the  small 
fry  who  abide  her  coming  are  hurled  on  leeshores,  or 
tossed,  terrified  and  storm-beaten,  into  holes  and  corners 
to  hide  themselves ;  while  the  larger  ships  and  steamers 
toil  grandly  on,  defiant. 

Laura  was  looking  from  her  window,  and  watched  the 
dark  weather  booming  and  rushing  from  the  south-west 
across  the  sands.  The  evening  was  darkening  so  much, 
and  night  was  so  near,  that  the  few  toiling  ships  passing 
up  and  down  the  Channel  were  getting  too  dim  to  dis- 
tinguish through  the  haze. 

The  news  of  the  accident  had  found  its  way  early  that 
morning  from  the  servants'-hall  to  the  steward's  room, 
and  from  thence  upwards  into  that  sacred  eyrie,  which 
those  two  eagles  of  respectability — Elspie  the  Scottish 
nurse,  and  Lady  Emily's  maid — had  got  built  for  them- 
selves alone  above  the  base  scolding  of  the  shorter-winged 
birds  below,  and  where  they  sat  all  day  with  their  long 
beaks  together  over  the  table,  turning  over  the  bones  of 
dead  scandals,  and  scenting  new  ones.  A  little  wide-eyed 
dove  of  a  stillroom  maid  got  bold  enough,  under  the  gen- 
eral excitement,  to  fly  into  their  Golgotha,  and  tell  them 
the  news  without  having  heard  their  bell :  after  which  she 
wisely  fluttered  out  again. 

As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  old  Elspie  rose  up  and  said  to 
the  Englishwoman,  "  I'll  just  gang  up  at  once,  and  break 
it  to  her  myself." 

"  I  think  you  are  wise,  my  dear  soul,"  said  Mistress 
Bridget.  "  Break  it  to  her  gently,  my  dear  soul.  That  it 
should  come  to  this  !  Break  it  to  her  gently.  How  very, 
very  dreadful !  But  it  is  all  for  the  best.  Be  gentle  with 
it,  my  dear  soul,  whatever  you  do.  Poor  young  man ! 

"5 


Leighton  Court 

But  I  didn't  see  my  way  out  of  the  mess  till  this  happened. 
We  have  a  deal  to  be  thankful  for  in  this,  Mistress  Camp- 
bell. Mercies  are  showered  down  on  us  every  day. 
Break  it  to  her  gently,  my  dear  soul ;  but  I  fear  she  will 
break  her  heart  over  it,  anyhow." 

Elspie,  as  the  saying  goes,  looked  her  through  and 
through.  Mistress  Bridget  had  before  made  some  feeble 
skirmishing  attempts  on  Elspie  of  this  kind — attempts  to 
make  Elspie  acknowledge  that  there  was  some  kind  of  mild 
flirtation  between  Poyntz-Hammersley  and  Laura,  and 
Elspie  had  always  stopped  her  advance  with  a  dead-wall  of 
Scotch  caution.  Her  own  darling  Laura  should  never  be 
talked  about,  by  that  woman  at  any  rate  !  She  considered 
Mistress  Bridget's  last  speech  as  a  treacherous  attack  on 
her  works  at  a  moment  of  sentimental  confidence,  and  she 
was  very  angry. 

"  Ye'll  no  sell  stinking  herrings  in  Kirkcaldy,  woman," 
she  said.  "  And  why  should  Miss  Laura  break  her  heart 
because  one  of  her  father's  retainers  is  drowned  in  the 
sand,  if  ye  please  ?  " 

Mistress  Bridget  "caved  in."  It  was  very  horrible — 
such  a  fine  young  man  ! — and  so  on  ;  she  had  not  meant 
anything. 

"  Ye'd  better  not  mean  anything,  woman,"  replied 
Elspie,  leaving  the  room,  "  because  I  ain't  just  in  the  tem- 
per to  stand  it." 

"  So  she,  who  knew  how  matters  stood  as  well  as  you 
or  I,  went  upstairs  and  broke  it  to  Laura  in  the  fashion 
which  her  keen  intellect  told  her  was  the  best. 

Laura  was  in  her  combing  -  jacket,  combing  her  hair, 
when  she  came  in.  She  stood  at  the  door,  and  knocked 
her  stick  on  the  floor. 

"  A  bonnie  morn,  lassie  !  " 

"  A  beautiful  morning,  nurse." 

"Ye  ken  young  Hammersley,  yer  father's  favourite 
man  ?  " 

"  Very  well." 

116 


Leighton  Court 

"  He's  drowned,  drowned,  drowned  ;  buried  sax  feet  in 
the  wicked  treacherous  sand,  and  his  ain  mither  will  never 
wail  over  his  bonny  corpse !  Sirs,  he  was  a  bonny  lad  ! 
I've  a  tear  or  twa  left  for  him  in  my  dry  eye  yet.  The 
horse  fought  out  of  the  quicksand  and  got  drowned  fairly 
— they  found  him  just  now  in  the  cove  below  the  Castle 
cliff — but  your  bonnie  Hammersley  is  deid,  smoored  in 
the  sand,  halfway  between  this  and  Barcombe  !  " 

And  so  she  shut  the  door  on  Laura,  and  went  down- 
stairs to  see  if  Mistress  Bridget  was  inclined  for  a  fight, 
which  she  felt  would  do  her  good,  saying  as  she  went, — 

"  There,  she  has  got  it  a1 !  Poor  dear,  poor  darling, 
she  loved  him ;  and  he  was  a  bonny  boy,  a  bonny  boy, 
worth  sax  hundred  of  your  fushionless,  doited  potato- 
bogle  Hatterleighs  ?  She  shall  stay  alone  to-day.  I'll  tell 
that  round-about  whisky-barrel  woman  Lady  Emily,  and 
that  feckless  auld  dolly  Lady  Southmolton,  that  she  is  ill. 
They  lang  nebbit  hawk-eyed  women  are  best  left  alone  in 
their  grief.  I  mind  me  of  a  red-haired  seceder  lass  taking 
the  jocktaleg  to  her  ain  mither,  but  that's  no  exactly  to  the 
purpose.  Laura  is  too  lang  in  the  neb,  and  too  keen  in 
the  eye,  to  be  meddled  with  this  day. 

"  But,"  groaned  out  the  old  woman,  "  the  Papister !  If 
that  man  get  hold  of  her,  now  in  her  trouble,  she'll  be  a 
Papist  in  three  months ;  and  she'll  fly  to  him  now,  and 
he'll  pass  her  on  to  the  abomination,  the  villain,  before  I 
am  dead.  I  shall  have  to  see  it.  I'll  go  in  and  see  if  Mis- 
tress Bridget  will  have  a  turn  of  words  with  me,  and  help 
me  to  put  poor  Laura  out  of  my  mind.  They  lang  nebbit 
women — it's  either  Calvinism  or  Romanism  with  them. 
They  must  have  it  hot  either  way." 

Poor  Laura  had  been  devising  fifty  plans  to  avoid  seeing 
Hammersley  again,  supposing  he  had  not  done  as  she  had 
asked  him,  and  gone.  One  plan  was  to  ask  to  go  to  her 
aunt's  in  London ;  another  to  fall  ill,  and  get  taken  to 
Bournemouth  ;  another  to  tell  her  father  just  enough  to 
make  him  send  Hammersley  away.  But  now  her  difficulty 

"7 


Leighton  Court 

had  been  solved  in  this  horrible  way.  She  spent  all  the 
day  by  herself  in  a  state  of  stupefied  terror,  sending  ex- 
cuses downstairs  to  say  that  she  was  shocked  by  the  acci- 
dent, and  that  it  had  made  her  ill.  All  day  she  stayed  in 
her  room,  looking  over  the  desolate  sands  until  day  began 
to  decline.  She  felt  alternately  terror  at  his  death,  and 
terror  at  what  she  had  escaped ;  tenderness,  too,  tried  to 
make  itself  heard,  but  she  resolutely  beat  it.  "  Not  to- 
day, at  all  events — not  to-day,"  she  said  resolutely. 

As  the  day  went  on  a  resolution  grew  into  a  settled  pur- 
pose, and  at  evening  she  rose  to  put  it  into  practice.  In  her 
terror  and  her  grief  she  fled  back  to  those  old  rules  of  life 
in  which  she  had  been  brought  up.  She  would  appeal  to 
them  for  protection  against  herself ;  they  had  seemed  to 
do  much  for  her  grandmother  —  let  her  see  what  they 
would  do  for  her,  now  they  were  wanted. 

She  dressed  herself  very  carefully,  and  went  down  to 
dinner.  As  she  shut  the  door  of  her  room,  she  said — 
"  There  !  the  discipline  is  begun  ;  the  last  six  months  are 
shut  in  that  room  for  ever !  " 

When  she  got  down  Lady  Southmolton  and  her  mother 
were  laughing  together,  but  they  left  off  as  she  came  in. 

"  My  dearest  girl,"  said  the  older  lady.  "  you  have  had  a 
sad  shock." 

"  Why,  yes — rather,"  said  Laura,  in  her  dryest,  hardest 
voice ;  "  it  actually  made  me  ill  for  a  little,  Elspie  an- 
nounced it  so  suddenly.  It  seemed  to  me  so  particularly 
horrible,  that  a  fellow  -  creature  was  struggling  for  life 
within  sight  of  our  windows,  while  we  were  comfortably 
laughing  and  joking.  At  what  time  was  he  drowned  ?  " 

"  At  about  a  quarter  to  eleven." 

"  Singular !  There  was  a  light  in  my  room  just  at  the 
time,  probably  the  only  one  on  that  side  of  the  house. 
That  must  have  been  the  last  object  his  eyes  rested  on  be- 
fore he  sank.  Of  course  it  is  not  so  shocking  in  this  case, 
as  it  was  only  a  servant,  but  it  is  very  sad  !  " 

This  I  give  as  an  instance  of  the  mental  torture  she  be- 
118 


Leighton  Court 

gan  to  inflict  on  herself.  Not  an  idle  hour  in  the  day  was 
allowed  now.  The  next  day  she  walked  up  to  the  Vicar 
in  the  morning,  confessed  to  him,  and  received  absolution. 
He  imposed  a  few  penances  upon  her,  which  seemed  to 
make  her  much  happier,  but  they  were  very  light  ones 
indeed  ;  for  the  Vicar  was  not  only  glad  to  have  her  back, 
having  missed  her  sadly,  but  he  thought,  on  the  whole, 
that  she  had  behaved  uncommonly  well.  The  principal 
thing  he  insisted  on  was,  that  there  should  be  no  more  fox- 
hunting ;  all  the  mischief  had  come  from  that,  and  there 
should  be  an  end  to  it. 

And  Sir  Charles  put  up  a  tablet  on  the  church-wall  to 
poor  Poyntz-Hammersley,  and  "  The  Elk  "  sleeps  beneath 
the  immemorial  elms  in  the  corner  of  the  Park. 


END  OF  PART  I 


Leighton  Court 


part  H1F 

Chapter  XXVI 

BY  the  end  of  July,  before  the  cub-hunting  began,  all 
the  neighbours  came  cackling  back  again,  with  new  ideas, 
new  dresses,  new  people  to  talk  about,  new  combinations 
to  discuss  ;  and  poured  into  the  Court  first  of  all,  as  being 
the  most  popular  house  thereabouts,  to  give  the  folks  there 
— Laura  especially — the  results  of  their  experience :  as  if 
there  had  been  no  change  down  here — as  if  there  had  not 
something  happened  here  which  made  their  mere  cacklings 
ridiculously  unimportant — as  if  she  had  not  lived  a  life 
longer  than  any  of  theirs  since  they  had  gone  ambling 
away  into  the  world  ! 

There  was  a  dinner-party,  with  some  of  the  first  arrivals, 
on  a  Friday — a  haunch-day,  as  Sir  Peckwith  Downes 
called  it.  Laura  appeared  in  grey  silk,  with  no  ornament 
but  a  crucifix;  and,  as  it  was  a  fast-day,  mortified  the 
flesh  by  taking  nothing  for  dinner  but  turbot  and  lobster- 
sauce,  oyster-patties,  some  omelette,  a  little  cream,  and 
some  peaches  and  grapes.  Her  conversation,  also,  was 
purely  theological.  In  short,  with  the  highest  and  noblest 
intentions,  she  was  overdoing  the  thing  altogether ;  and 
when  it  was  over,  and  Laura  had  gone  upstairs,  her  father 
followed  her  into  her  room,  and  said  : 

"  My  sweetest  Laura,  I  am  not  going  to  argue,  to  dic- 
tate, to  command,  or  even  to  advise.  I  merely  want  to 
put  this  before  you.  Does  not  your  admirable  good  sense 
point  out  to  you  that  your  suddenly-changed  dress  and 
manner  are  calculated  to  make  people  talk  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  father — let  them  talk  !  " 

"  After  what  has  happened  ? "  said  Sir  Charles,  and 
thought  wistfully. 

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"  It  shall  be  as  you  wish,"  said  Laura.  "  I  quite  see 
what  you  mean,  dear ;  and  don't  be  impatient.  The  old 
confidence  will  come  back  in  happier  times.  There — go  !  " 

"It  will  come  back  in  ruin  and  disaster,"  thought  Sir 
Charles.  But  his  heart  was  lighter.  "  It  will  come  back, 
at  all  events,"  said  he. 

After  this,  Laura  never  made  any  public — not  to  say 
offensive — renegation  of  the  vanities  of  this  world,  but  let 
her  own  common-sense  have  full  play.  She  was  thor- 
oughly in  earnest  though,  and  worked  away  like  a  cart- 
horse at  her  good  resolutions.  I  suppose  most  of  us  have 
done  what  she  was  doing  at  one  period  of  our  lives,  and 
have  found,  or  have  thought  we  found,  peace  in  factitious 
activity  about  small  things ;  and  have  ended  by  finding 
out  that,  like  opium  or  brandy,  the  remedy  destroys  itself, 
and  that"  peace  of  mind  "  is  not  the  greatest  object  in  this 
world.  But  with  this  we  have  little  to  do  ;  we  must  attend 
to  more  trivial  matters.  We  have  more  to  do  with  the 
succession  of  arrivals,  which  came  on  the  Court  people 
like  a  deluge  of  cold  water ;  and  had  the  effect,  among 
others,  of  making  Sir  Charles  quite  forget  that  he  was  a 
bankrupt. 

Constance  Downes  was  about  the  very  first  of  the  ar- 
rivals. She  was  a  fine,  roundabout,  bounceable,  two-to-a- 
pew  young  lady  before  she  went ;  but  now  she  had  sewed 
pillows  to  all  her  armholes,  and  was  two  breadths  more 
round  the  skirt  than  she  had  ever  been  before.  She  em- 
braced Laura,  and,  as  she  said,  brought  the  news  herself. 
She  was  engaged  :  to  Count  Ozoni  Galvani,  an  Italian 
nobleman,  it  appeared ;  who,  if  his  brother,  the  Duke  of 
Pozzo  di  Argento,  a  most  dissipated  and  unhealthy  man, 
died,  would  become  golden  pump  himself ;  but  who  at 
all  events,  even  if  that  miserable  little  creature  married, 
would  have  his  mother's  money.  She  was  Miss  Butts,  it 
appeared,  the  banker's  daughter,  at  Whitby.  Laura 
congratulated  her,  but  wondered  how  it  was  that  Con- 
stance, with  her  beauty  and  her  fifteen  thousand  pounds, 

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had  not  picked  up  something  better  :  moreover,  wondered 
how  much  Constance  Downes'  dress  had  cost ;  and 
whether  "  his  mother's  money "  would  stand  such  a 
tug-of-war  as  a  dozen  of  such  dresses  a  year :  got  entirely 
worldly,  in  fact,  as  she  confessed  to  the  Vicar  next  day, 
who  was  very  impatient  with  her,  though  from  a  cause 
quite  different  to  what  she  supposed, 

With  Constance,  of  course,  came  Sir  Peckwich  and 
Lady  Downes,  vastly  deteriorated  in  everything  which 
made  them  worthy,  by  their  visit  to  London.  They  had 
both  developed,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  thought  they 
had  developed.  Sir  Peckwich,  from  an  honest  county 
baronet,  had  developed  into  a  two-penny-halfpenny  poli- 
tician, and,  what  is  worse  in  a  story  about  mere  social  re- 
lations, an  absolute  bore.  Lady  Downes,  an  honest, 
roundabout,  country-squire's  wife,  was  now  by  way  of 
being  a  fine  lady,  with  about  the  same  capabilities  for  be- 
ing one,  or  of  understanding  what  one  is,  as  a  donkey  has 
of  winning  the  Derby.  A  fine  lady  is  a  very  rare  and 
peculiar  article,  like  certain  wines.  Any  wine-merchant 
can  charge  you  for  them,  but  it  takes  three  generations — 
three  bottlings  off,  and  a  voyage  to  India  say,  to  supply 
the  article.  What  it  is  worth  when  you  get  it  is  another 
matter.  But  your  real  fine  lady  is  a  thing  of  time  and 
tradition ;  you  can't,  to  take  the  very  lowest  qualification 
of  all,  get  at  that  unutterably  graceful  impudence  in  one 
generation.  Mere  Becky  Sharp  genius  won't  do  it ;  it 
wants  tradition.  The  art  is,  they  say,  rapidly  becoming 
extinct  in  England ;  but  there  are  a  few  fine  ladies  left 
still.  We  have  lost  utterly  the  art  of  designing  decent 
buildings  and  statues,  and  of  making  bells ;  but  those  who 
ought  to  know  tell  one,  we  have  a  few  fine  ladies  left, 
though  none  coming  in.  One  would  say  that  fine  ladies 
would,  in  the  coming  bouleversement,  be  found  last  in 
Prussia.  Bismarck,  though  of  the  other  sex,  is,  as  far  as 
we  have  been  taught  to  understand  the  fine  lady,  the  finest 
instance  of  the  fine  lady  to  be  found  out  of  England. 

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It  is  humiliating  to  confess  that  poor  dear  Lady  Downes 
tried  to  be  the  fine  lady  before  Lady  Southmolton :  but 
she  did.  She  sat,  and  fall-lalled,  and  patronised,  and 
talked  about  the  Court,  and  cross-examined  Lady  South- 
molton on  the  peerage,  and  on  people.  And  Lady  South- 
molton sat  and  looked  at  her. 

Colonel  Hilton  appeared  next.  He  had  been  to  Chalons, 
but  not,  as  was  proposed  to  him,  to  America.  He  looked 
handsomer  than  ever.  He  had  found  so  much  to  do  at 
Chalons,  in  studying  the  new  military  movements,  that  he 
had  got  another  man  sent  to  America.  It  had  been  very 
pleasant  there  and  at  Paris.  The  Poyntz  people,  Sir  Harry 
and  his  bride,  had  been  there.  "  At  Chalons  or  at  Paris  ?  " 
— "At  both." — "How  was  Lady  Poyntz?"  —  "Lady 
Poyntz  was  quite  well,"  he  believed. 

Next  the  Poyntz  themselves  came.  Everyone  at  one 
time  had  declared  they  would  not  call  on  them,  but  now, 
somehow,  everybody  did.  Lady  Southmolton  went  with 
singular  promptitude,  in  the  most  public  manner;  thun- 
dering through  Winkvvorthy  ostentatiously,  in  the  family 
Ark.  It  is  supposed  that  Sir  P.  Bownes  would  have  re- 
fused to  call,  but  his  women-folks  were  too  many  for  him. 
It  was  understood  that  Sir  Harry  would  keep  up  the  house 
much  as  the  Huxtables  had  done,  and  Constance  had  a 
hundred  pounds'  worth  of  finery  which  she  must  wear  out 
before  the  fashions  changed ;  and  she,  as  bully  of  the 
establishment,  had  no  idea  of  having  a  house  closed  to  her 
down  here,  where  there  were  so  few.  So  they  went,  and 
everybody  went.  And  Sir  Harry  received  them  with  the 
most  high-headed  nonchalance,  and  showed  them  all,  as 
plainly  as  possible,  that  he  did  not  care  whether  they  came 
or  stayed  away. 

So  the  land  became  peopled  again  ;  and  before  they  had 
well  heard  and  communicated  all  the  news,  Laura,  one 
afternoon  coming  out  of  her  room,  heard  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh  cackling  and  screeching  in  the  hall. 


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Chapter  XXVII 

ABOUT  a  fortnight  after  their  arrival  at  the  Castle,  Lady 
Poyntz  was  sitting  at  breakfast,  in  her  own  old  room  in 
the  keep,  the  quaint  four-windowed  room  in  which  Laura 
once  met  Sir  Harry  Poyntz. 

Poor  woman  !  She  had  got  back  to  the  dear  old  Castle 
as  its  mistress — she  had  got  title  and  position,  such  as  it 
was  ;  but  she  had  made  a  sad  blunder,  and  she  had  found 
it  out  three  days  after  she  had  married. 

Sir  Harry  puzzled  and  shocked  her.  He  was  unutter- 
ably false,  but  he  was  never  in  the  very  least  ashamed  of 
it ;  and  as  for  physical  cowardice,  he  boasted  of  it.  With 
all  this  he  had  shown  hitherto  such  a  perfectly  equable 
temper,  and  such  an  unmovable  persistency  in  gaining 
his  end,  that,  on  the  two  or  three  occasions  in  which  their 
wills  had  crossed  already,  she  had  yielded,  although  a  per- 
son of  considerable  strength  of  character.  Once  she  had 
made  him  a  scene,  but  it  was  no  use  :  the  more  she  stormed 
the  more  he  laughed,  in  such  an  exasperating  way  that  he 
left  her  pale  with  rage.  She  vowed  to  herself  that  he 
should  never  see  her  tears  again. 

Still  it  was  his  interest  to  treat  her  well,  for  only  half  her 
money  was  in  his  power,  and  he  did  so  whenever  she  did 
not  come  between  him  and  his  object :  when  that  was  the 
case,  his  gigantic  selfishness  would  have  made  him  use 
cruelty  towards  her,  had  it  been  necessary. 

"  Lady  Poyntz,  I  wish  you  would  tell  your  women  to 
get  the  blue  room  ready  for  to-morrow,"  he  said  on  this 
particular  morning. 

"  Certainly,  dear  :  who  is  coming  ?  " 

"  Captain  Wheaton." 

"Sir  Harry  Poyntz,"  she  said,  indignantly,  "you  prom- 
ised that  you  would  not  let  that  man  enter  the  house ! " 

"  I  did  not  promise." 

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"  You  did,  and,  what  is  more,  you  know  you  did." 

"  Well,  that  was  before  we  were  married,  when  I  wasn't 
sure  of  you." 

"  Or  my  money  ?  " 

"  Or  your  money  :  exactly,  and  I  can't  keep  my  promise 
now — lovers'  oaths,  you  know.  I  must  have  the  fellow. 
He  is  an  awful  blackguard,  but  he  is  necessary  to  me.  I 
will  keep  him  in  order  for  you.  He  is  afraid  of  me — phys- 
ically afraid  I  mean — as  great  a  hound  as  that." 

Lady  Poyntz  remained  silent,  considering  how  she  should 
act,  and,  while  doing  so,  fixed  her  fine  dark  eye  steadily  on 
her  husband's.  What  a  curious,  shallow,  cold,  dangerous 
eye  it  was — the  lightest  blue  she  had  ever  seen  with  a  kind 
of  moonlight  gleam  about  it !  She  would  have  died  sooner 
than  have  turned  her  own  eye  away,  and  yet  she  would 
have  been  glad  to  do  so.  She  made  as  though  she  were 
brushing  flies  away  from  her  forehead,  and  at  last  said — 

"  Well,  I  have  made  up  my  mind ;  I  suppose  he  will 
come." 

"  Most  assuredly  !  " 

"  Then  I  shall  not  speak  to  him,  and  not  allow  him  in 
the  drawing-room.  I  must  sit  at  dinner  with  him,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  so.  I  am  glad  you  are  not  going  to 
speak  to  him  ;  it  will  teach  him  his  place.  So  that  is  set- 
tled ;  I  thank  you  very  much." 

"  Harry,"  said  Lady  Poyntz,  "  do  you  ever  hear  from 
your  brother  in  India?  " 

"  My  brother  in  India  is  an  extravagant  and  dissipated 
rascal,"  said  Sir  Harry ;  "  I  wish  he  was  at  Jericho  !  He 
has  been  costing  me  more  money." 

"  Is  there  any  chance  of  his  coming  home  soon  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  I  should  like  to  catch  him  at  it,"  said  Sir  Harry.  "  Oh, 
I  should  so  very  much  like  to  catch  him  at  it ! " 

Maria  had  asked  him  this  in  good-natured  curiosity,  to 
see  how  he  was  disposed  towards  his  brother,  and  to  try 

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and  find  out  something  of  his  character.  She  had  been 
set  on  to  this  by  her  old  friend,  Sir  Charles  Seckerton.  It 
was  an  important  question  to  him,  for  he  knew  the  state 
of  Sir  Harry  Poyntz's  health.  She  left  the  result  here,  as 
being  somewhat  unsatisfactory.  There  was  another  mat- 
ter on  which  she  wished  to  satisfy  herself,  and  thought  it  a 
good  opportunity.  She,  as  nonchalantly  as  she  could,  said — 

"  What  a  sad  accident  the  Seckertons  have  had  with 
their  new  huntsman  !  " 

The  light-blue  eyes  were  on  her  in  a  moment.  She 
thought  that  the  fowl  sat,  and  she  stalked  on. 

He  said,  "  Yes,  I  heard  of  it." 

"  Did  you  know  anything  of  the  young  man  ?" 

"  I  suppose  you  do,  from  your  manner,  my  pretty  fen- 
cer. I  guess  that  you  know  that  he  was  our  illegitimate 
brother.  Is  not  that  true  ?  " 

Maria  laughed.  "  You  are  very  cunning,"  she  said ; 
but  the  blue  eye  was  on  her,  still  enquiringly. 

"  Who  told  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Lady  Emily  Seckerton,"  she  said.  "  What  sort  of 
man  was  he  ?  Were  you  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Very  much  so.  I  liked  him  better  than  any  other  hu- 
man being — except  you,  you  know,  of  course." 

"  You  seem  to  have  taken  his  loss  pretty  easily  ;  I  did 
not  notice  that  you  were  much  affected." 

"  I  wished  to  spare  your  feelings ;  I  was  unwilling  to 
disturb  the  happiness  of  your  honeymoon  by  any  exhibition 
of  grief.  Besides,  it  is  one  of  the  traits  of  my  character 
that  I  never  do  show  my  grief.  The  remarkable  fortitude 
I  showed  at  the  death  of  my  father  drew  tears  from  the 
nurse.  She  was  drunk,  and  wanted  to  kiss  me ;  but  I  am 
sure  she  was  in  earnest." 

"  I  suppose  you  could  show  equal  fortitude  at  my 
death  ?  "  said  Maria. 

"  That  would  depend  entirely  on  what  you  did  with  the 
thirty  thousand  pounds  which  is  settled  on  yourself.  If 
you  left  it  back  to  me,  as  Christianity  dictates,  I  should 

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spend  five-and-twenty  pounds  on  a  cheap  tombstone  for 
you,  tear  my  hair,  and  take  to  drink.  If  you  let  it  go  back 
to  your  family,  I  should  show  my  fortitude  by  looking  out 
for  another  woman  with  money,  as  soon  as — nay,  long  be- 
fore— it  was  decent." 

"  Harry !  Harry  !  "  said  Maria  reproachfully,  "  are  you 
ever  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  on  money  matters — on  sentimental  busi- 
ness, never.  So  drop  it.  Now,  have  you  satisfied  your 
curiosity  about  Poyntz-Hammersley  ?  " 

"  I  have  satisfied  my  own.  Now  to  raise  yours.  Do 
you  like  Laura  Seckerton  ?  " 

"  I  love  her !  She  is  a  paragon  of  a  woman — so  beauti- 
ful, so  discreet,  so  careful  not  to  wound  with  her  tongue. 
Oh,  I  love  her  !  " 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  something  about  her — your  paragon  ?  " 

"  Do  ;  you  will  never  bore  me  as  long  as  you  speak  of 
her." 

"  Why,  then,  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  unhappy  woman. 
"  She  fell  in  love  with  Poyntz-Hammersley ;  she  made 
every  kind  of  advance  to  him,  which  he,  for  decency's  sake, 
reciprocated.  When  he  was  drowned,  she  took  to  her 
long-forgotten  devotions,  and  went  into  mourning,  until 
her  father  and  mother  forced  her,  with  threats,  to  behave 
more  reasonably.  All  this  time  she  believed  him  to  be  a 
common  groom  from  the  stableyard.  I  know  that  she 
knows  no  more  of  him — no,  nor  does  anyone  else,  except 
her  mother  and  her  father.  And  this  is  your  Laura :  it  is 
the  scandal  of  the  place." 

Sir  Harry  drew  his  chair  up  against  hers,  and  said,  "  Say 
that  again." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  delicious  ;  because  it  does  me  good  ;  be- 
cause it  makes  me  love  you.  Wheaton  shall  dine  in  the 
housekeeper's  room,  in  the  still-room,  in  the  coal-hole,  be- 
fore he  insults  my  peerless  wife  by  his  presence  !  Say  it 
again," 

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She  told  the  story  over,  with  additions. 

"  That  is  very  good,"  he  said ;  "  you  love  her,  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  I  hate  her !  "  said  Maria,  but  said  no  more. 

"  And  I,"  said  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  grasping  his  wife's  arm 
— "  I  hate  her  with  a  hatred  which  your  spasmodic  female 
nature  has  no  power  of  understanding,  leave  alone  of  feel- 
ing !  She  hates  me,  and  she  nearly  turned  you  against  me 
(and  your  sixty  thousand  pounds,  you  know  ;  let  us  have 
no  sentimentality).  She  has  used  language  about  me  here, 
there,  and  everywhere  which  a  dog  wouldn't  forgive — and 
a  dog  will  forgive,  from  his  heart  of  hearts,  far  more  than 
any  Christian.  I  hate  her !  I  can  ruin  her  father  any 
hour  after  six  months  ;  but  the  pleasure  of  ruining  her  will 
be  greater  than  taking  possession  of  the  Court.  How  are 
matters  going  on  with  Lord  Hatterleigh  ?  " 

Maria  roused  herself,  and  said  :  "  I  expect  the  engage- 
ment to  be  announced  every  day.  The  booby  is  always 
there.  How  long  he  will  take  about  proposing,  Providence 
only  knows.  When,  where,  and  how  he  will  do  it  I  dare 
not  think,  but  do  it  he  will :  and  she  will  have  him,  and 
stop  slander." 

"  Look  here, "said  Sir  Harry, with  his  wife's  wrist  still  in 
his  hand.  "  You  have  said  you  hated  her,  and  I  must  do 
you  the  credit  to  say  that  you  never  lie,  if  that  be  any  credit. 
We  must  let  this  engagement  go  on  until  it  is  talked  of  all 
over  the  county — until  it  is  in  the  Morning  Post ;  and 
then  we  must  revive  this  scandal,  get  it  broken  off,  and  drag 
her  down  in  the  dust.  Tell  me,  woman  (for  I  am  blind 
about  such  things),  is  Hatterleigh,  as  they  say  in  their  cant, 
man  enough  to  pitch  her  overboard  for  this  ?  " 

"  He  is  one  of  the  first  men  who  would  do  so.  But  I 
am  not  prepared " 

"  Then  I  will  prepare  you.  It  was  well  done  in  her  to 
trifle  and  play  with  our  dear  friend,  Colonel  Hilton,  and 
then  throw  him  over  for  a  roughrider  !  " 

Maria  could  not  help  catching  her  arm  away.     "  Have  I 

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married  the  Fiend  ?  "  she  thought,  and  Sir  Harry  Poyntz 
laughed  and  left  the  room. 

This  interview  had  opened  both  their  eyes  a  little. 
Maria  saw,  by  this  last  unutterably  wicked  speech  of  his, 
that  her  husband  knew  that  she  had  been  in  love  with 
Colonel  Hilton,  and  that  he  had  tried  to  see  whether  that 
was  the  case  still.  He,  from  the  snatching-away  of  her  arm 
when  Hilton  and  Laura's  names  were  mentioned  together, 
had  seen  that  it  was.  Alas  !  he  was  right.  Poor  Lady 
Poyntz  had  tried  to  get  over  it ;  but  the  first  few  days  with 
Sir  Harry  had  opened  her  eyes,  and  Chalons  and  Paris  had 
done  the  rest.  She  found  herself  tied  to  a  hopeless,  shame- 
less liar  and  coward ;  while  that  glorious  melancholy-eyed 
hero  Hilton  had,  now  that  Laura's  baleful  dark  eyes  were 
out  of  the  way,  fallen  in  love  with  her.  It  was  all  Laura's 
fault ;  she  would  have  won  him  in  time  if  it  had  not  been 
for  Laura.  So,  when  her  husband  had  asked  her,  she  had 
said,  "  I  hate  her ! " 

But  had  that  very  unaccountable  scoundrel,  Sir  Harry 
Poyntz,  known  anything  about  the  better  class  of  women, 
which  he  did  not,  he  would  have  observed  that  Maria's  "  I 
hate  her  !  "  was  said  in  a  snappish  tone,  which,  with  a  very 
little  extra  passion,  would  have  gone  over  the  hysterical 
border,  and  come  to  be,  "  I  love  her."  The  fact  was  that 
there  was  nothing  more  than  temper,  and  a  very  little  mat- 
ter of  that,  between  her  and  Laura  just  now.  Lady  Poyntz 
had  thought  a  good  deal  since  she  had  flown  out  at  Laura 
on  the  subject  of  Colonel  Hilton  just  before  she  was  mar- 
ried :  had  reflected  what  a  high-minded,  noble  friend  Laura 
had  been  to  her ;  how  the  real  fact  was  that  Laura  had 
never  encouraged  Colonel  Hilton,  whereas  Colonel  Hilton 
had  undoubtedly  made,  in  his  cool  procrastinating  dandy- 
soldier  way,  a  considerable  deal  of  love  to  Laura  ;  and  that 
Laura  had  only  told  her  the  truth  about  her  husband,  after 
all.  But  still  she  had  a  little  devil  of  jealousy  and  evil 
temper  at  work  in  her  heart  —  a  little  devil  who  was 
sometimes  almost  powerless,  but  who  got  very  active  and 

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powerful  whenever  her  husband  had  the  management  ot 
him. 

Sir  Harry  had  just  been  showing  off  the  paces  of  that 
little  fiend,  and  he  was  full  rampant.  But  even  now,  in  the 
hour  of  that  fiend's  power,  poor  Lady  Poyntz  knew  in  her 
own  mind  that  she  could  never  bring  herself  to  join  her 
husband  in  his  scheme  for  ruining  Laura.  She  felt  pleas- 
ure in  the  indulgence  of  her  ill-temper  towards  her,  but 
only  in  imagination  :  she  knew  she  would  never  reduce  it 
to  practice,  although  she  went  to  bed  indulging  in  the  an- 
ticipation of  doing  so. 


Chapter  XXVIII 

POOR  Laura,  terrified,  had  retired  into  her  shell,  and 
was  by  no  means  the  genial  outspoken  woman  of  old 
times.  Besides,  Maria  Poyntz  had  given  the  first  offence, 
and  should  therefore  make  the  first  advance,  which  Maria, 
after  the  extremely  precise  not  to  say  demure  manner  in 
which  Laura  had  received  her,  felt  very  little  inclined  to 
do. 

"  She  might  surely  come  and  see  me  ?  "  sulked  Lady 
Poyntz.  "  I  have  not  committed  any  crime."  But  as- 
suredly she  did  not  ;  and  as  sulks  grow  by  indulgence,  the 
chances  of  a  reconciliation  seemed  to  get  more  hopeless  as 
time  went  on. 

Laura's  mother  and  grandmother  were  astonished  to 
find  all  their  old  influence  over  her  completely  restored. 
They  were  such  very  wise  women  that  they  never  men- 
tioned this  astonishment  even  to  one  another.  They  per- 
fectly understood  one  another,  and  agreed  without  speech 
that  the  reins  now  recovered  must  not  be  drawn  too  tight, 
and,  moreover,  must  be  loosened  on  the  first  symptom 
of  restiveness.  They  need  not  have  been  uneasy ;  they 
might  have  driven  her  hard  enough  now.  Part  of  her 

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scheme  was  the  giving-up  of  her  own  will,  and  the  more 
they  had  asked  from  her  the  more  she  would  have  yielded. 
One  difficulty  she  had — a  comical,  foolish  little  difficulty 
enough,  but  one  which  gave  her  a  deal  of  trouble :  she 
was  determined  to  yield  to  the  Vicar's  wish  about  fox- 
hunting, and  she  dreaded  telling  her  father  of  this  reso- 
lution. Moreover,  she  was  afraid  of  giving  rise  to  remarks. 
Something  occurred,  however,  before  cub-hunting  began, 
which  made  this  matter  easy  for  her. 

We  were  great  admirers  of  the  late  Admiral  Fitzroy, 
and  at  one  time  thought  Mr.  Burder  a  most  shocking  man 
for  doubting  his  entire  infallibility.  Certainly,  some  of  the 
Admiral's  hits  about  the  weather  were  nearly  miraculous ; 
but  it  was  a  low  class  of  cunning.  It  was  done  mechani- 
cally, and  he  was  always  telling  us  how  he  did  it — a  great 
mistake  in  a  thaumaturgist.  It  was  almost  a  low  class  of 
cunning  compared  with  the  foresight  which  even  an  or- 
dinary woman  will  exhibit,  not  even  empirically,  but  in- 
tuitively, about  the  social  weather.  Compared  to  such  a 
woman  as  Laura,  the  late  Admiral  was  quite  behindhand, 
and  would  have  confessed  it  in  a  moment. 

There  was  bidden  a  great  picnic  party  to  the  place 
which  we,  with  our  fine  imagination,  have  hitherto  called 
"  the  glen  of  the  hundred  voices,"  but  which  is  marked  on 
the  Ordnance  Map  as  "  Crab's  Gut."  They  were  all  to 
start  from  the  Court  at  twelve  ;  and  when  Laura  had  fin- 
ished her  breakfast,  and  found  herself  alone  in  the  room 
with  her  grandmother  and  her  mother,  she  saw  that  there 
was  something  in  the  wind — that  they  were  going  to  say 
something  important  to  her.  She  couldn't  tell  you  ex- 
actly, like  Admiral  Fitzroy,  the  process  by  which  she  ar- 
rived at  her  conclusion,  but  the  conclusion  was  no  less 
certain.  They  were,  especially  the  elder,  both  well-trained 
women  ;  and  Laura  knew  that  they  would  take,  with  their 
wonderful  tact,  a  long  time  in  telling  her.  She  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  they  were  going  to  say,  had  her  answer 
ready,  and  wished  it  done.  Nevertheless,  she  was  a  ritual- 

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ist :  forms  must  be  gone  through.  They  did  not  ask  her 
to  stay  in  the  room.  She  looked  at  them  and  saved  them 
the  trouble,  stayed  without  being  asked  ;  looking  at  them 
both  steadily. 

Lady  Southmolton,  looking  out  of  window:  "  What  a 
glorious  day  for  it !  I  wish  I  was  going.  I  wonder  if  1 
dared  trundle  round  in  my  pony-carriage  and  see  you  all. 
I  am  afraid  not." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing,  mother,"  said 
Lady  Emily  ;  "  it  would  be  too  much  for  you."  She  had 
by  this  time  come  round  to  Laura,  and  was  stroking  her 
hair. 

"  That'll  do,  mamma,"  said  Laura  to  herself.  She  said 
aloud,  "  I  don't  think  you  had  better,  grandma.  It's  a  long 
way,  and  the  roads  are  rough.  No,  I  wouldn't." 

"  How  are  you  going,  dear  ?  "  asked  Lady  Southmolton, 
sweetly,  as  her  mother  kissed  her  back-hair,  in  irrepressi- 
ble admiration. 

"  With  peas  in  my  shoes.  It  is  Friday,  you  know,"  said 
Laura ;  and  didn't  say  anything  more,  which  was  worse 
still.  It  was  abominable  and  undutiful  of  her,  in  the  high- 
est degree,  to  pull  out  (if  one  may  be  allowed  a  simile, 
taken  from  Lady  Southmolton 's  constant  occupation)  her 
grandmother's  knitting  like  this !  However,  the  old  lady 
gathered  up  as  many  stitches  as  she  could,  and  clicked 
away  again.  Lady  Emily,  getting  frightened,  and  being 
(as  was  always  the  case  when  she  was  wanted)  utterly 
useless,  continued  to  stroke  Laura's  hair,  till  Laura  very 
nearly  went  to  the  extreme  length  of  asking  her  to  leave  off. 

Lady  Southmolton  got  up  a  ghost  of  a  giggle,  and  said 
something  about  their  dear  Laura's  spirits,  which,  seeing 
that  dear  Laura  was  sitting  before  her,  looking  very  stern, 
and  getting  paler  each  moment,  seemed  to  be  somewhat 
misplaced.  She  was  a  brave  old  lady,  however,  and  went 
on  with  her  business,  as  per  arrangement  with  Lady  Emily 
— plans  rather  traversed  by  Laura's  vulgar  answer  about 
the  peas  in  her  shoes. 

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"  Colonel  Hilton  is  coming  with  his  phaeton,  my  love  ; 
he  would  be  delighted  to  drive  you."  This  had  been  part 
of  the  leading-up  business,  but  went  amiss  :  it  came  in  the 
wrong  place,  and  didn't  fit. 

Said  Laura :  "  If  he  don't  drive  Maria  Poyntz  he  may 
drive  anyone  else.  But  he  sha'n't  drive  me.  And  if  he 
drives  her,  I  shall  not  go.  Neither  would  you,  mother, 
would  you  ?  "  facing  round  on  her  mother  at  the  same  time. 

Lady  Emily  kissed  her  daughter,  and  most  loyally  ans- 
wered, "  No,  I  would  not ; "  after  which  she  gave  the 
whole  business  up  to  Lady  Southmolton,  and  confined  her- 
self to  kissing  Laura  at  all  the  important  pauses. 

"  Now  go  on,  grandma,"  said  Laura. 

In  spite  of  this  traversing  of  plans  by  a  slightly  con- 
temptuous Laura,  the  old  lady  nailed  the  last  rags  of  the 
original  programme  to  the  mast,  and  fought  for  them  to 
the  end.  She  had  been  going  to  do  the  thing  in  the  proper 
way,  as  that  sort  of  thing  was  always  done.  The  responsi- 
bility of  any  deviation  from  the  programme  should  fall  on 
Laura's  shoulders.  She  solemnly  played  her  next  card, 
just  as  if  Laura  hadn't  just  trumped  one  of  the  same  suit. 

"  Lord  Hatterleigh,"  she  said,  in  as  offhand  a  manner  as 
she  could  manage — which  was  very  badly,  for  Laura  had 
been  '  odd  '  with  her,  and  she  hated  '  oddness,'  and  was 
nearly  eighty  — "  Lord  Hatterleigh  has  borrowed  your 
mother's  pony-carriage,  and  will  be  delighted  to  drive  you. 
Will  you  go  with  him  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

This  was  worse  than  before  —  enough  to  make  Mrs. 
Hannah  More  rise  from  her  grave.  Here  was  a  young 
woman  with  opinions  of  her  own,  with  some  shadowing- 
forth  of  a  character.  That  transcendently  perfect  and 
angelical  muff  and  ass  Ccelebs  would  never  have  got  on 
with  Laura :  a  young  person  who  exasperated  her  own 
grandmother  with  such  answers  as  that  about  the  peas,  or, 
failing  that,  monosyllables  like  this  last  "  yes,"  and  drove 
her  to  make  her  grand  speech  before  she  had  half  got 

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through  the  hour's  fencing  and  "  beating  about  the  bush  " 
laid  down  in  the  programme.  It  was  intolerable !  Lady 
Southmolton  came  to  the  "  toast  of  the  evening  "  at  once, — 

"  My  love,  all  that  I  have  previously  said,  and  which  you 
have  somewhat  impatiently  heard,  was  intended  to  prepare 
your  mind  for  this  great  fact :  Lord  Hatterleigh  has  been 
to  see  your  mother !  " 

Why  does  one  feel  inclined  to  laugh  at  a  funeral  ? 
Laura  felt  so  much  inclined  to  laugh  at  her  grandmother's 
bathos,  that  she  gave  herself  great  credit  for  keeping  her 
countenance.  Yet  she  knew — who  better  ? — that  it  meant 
a  life-important  decision.  She  was  all  alone,  poor  girl ! 
Her  heart  was  with  Poyntz-Hammersley,  who  was  drowned 
in  the  quicksands :  that  we  know  well.  Her  father  and 
she  were  estranged.  It  was  not  a  matter  for  the  Vicar's 
ear,  for  it  was  not  all  her  own  matter — one  half  was  Lord 
Hatterleigh's.  She  had,  she  thought,  nearly  done  a  great 
wrong  to  her  family,  and  would  atone  for  it  at  all  risks. 
No  :  she  had  no  soul  to  whom  to  go  to  for  advice  and  as- 
sistance ;  for  she  had  travelled  out  of  the  grooves  of  her 
mother  and  grandmother's  ways  of  life  and  thought,  and 
could  not  return  to  them  again,  try  she  never  so  hard. 
And,  above  all,  she  really  was  fond  of  that  Guy  Fawkes 
Lord  Hatterleigh  ;  she  knew  his  worth,  and  so  she  said, — 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  dear,  we  were  going  to  say  that  in  all  human 
probability  he  will  speak  to  you  this  morning  ;  and  that  if 
you  could  give  us  the  very  slightest  hint  as  to  what  answer 
you  would  give  him,  you  would  remove  a  great  load  from 
our  minds." 

"  I  will  give  him  any  answer  you  please ;  I  will  say 
exactly  what  you  like.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  ?  " 

Lady  Emily  kissed  her  and  wept ;  Lady  Southmolton 
went  on.  She  would  not  influence  her  for  one  moment, 
she  said ;  but  then  went  on  to  point  out  to  her  the  innumer- 
able advantages  of  such  a  match,  if  Laura  could  only  bring 
her  mind  to  it,  and  so  on. 

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"  I  gather  from  all  this,"  said  Laura,  "  that  I  am  to  say 
'yes.'  Well,  then,  'yes'  it  shall  be.  Now  I  think  I  will 
go  and  get  ready.  Here  are  the  carriages  coming  round." 

Lord  Hatterleigh  had  come  over  to  breakfast  that  morn- 
ing, but  had  spoken  word  to  no  one,  save  salutations — ex- 
cept to  Granby  Dixon,  M.P.,  the  man  who  knows  every- 
body, and  turns  up  everywhere.  Lord  Hatterleigh  had 
eagerly  seized  on  Granby  Dixon  the  moment  he  came  into 
the  house,  had  sat  next  him  at  breakfast,  and  talked  to  him 
incessantly  and  pertinaciously  about  the  Limited  Liability 
Bill.  And  that  kind  and  worthy  little  soul,  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  doing  a  goodnatured  action  by  un- 
dertaking Lord  Hatterleigh,  had  led  him  on.  Not  that  he 
wanted  much  leading,  however,  for  he  was  evidently  de- 
termined to  stick  to  the  Member  for  Brentford  like  a  leech  ; 
and  after  breakfast  took  him  out  into  the  garden,  and 
stumbled  up-and-down  beside  him,  offering  a  strange  con- 
trast to  his  dapper  companion.  All  this  was  somewhat 
irritating  to  Lady  Emily,  who  knew  what  was  coming ;  but 
her  wrath  rose  to  a  towering  pitch  when  she  heard  Lord 
Hatterleigh  say  to  Granby  Dixon,  just  before  they  started — 

"  Come  with  me,  Granby,  and  we  will  have  it  out  in  the 
carriage." 

"  This  is  too  bad  ! "  she  said  to  herself.  "  His  own  ar- 
rangement too !  However,  he  shall  not  play  with  me  like 
this." 

She  saw  that  Granby  Dixon  had  gone  upstairs  to  put  on 
his  boots,  and  that  Lord  Hatterleigh  was  in  the  porch. 
She  stood  by  the  stairs.  Granby's  dandy  little  boots  were 
soon  heard  tripping  down  the  stairs  ;  him  she  seized,  and 
eagerly  said — 

"  Mr.  Dixon,  my  dear  friend,  don't  go  with  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh :  Laura  is  to  go.  I  have  known  you  so  many 
years,  I  know  I  may  trust  you." 

He  grew  grave.  "  It  is  easily  managed,  my  dear  Lady 
Emily  ;  where  is  Miss  Seckerton  ?  " 

"  In  the  library.     Thank  you  very  much  !  " 

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Granby  Dixon  went  after  her  with  his  brightest  smile 
and  his  lightest  trip,  and  found  her  sitting  alone  in  the 
library,  ready-dressed. 

"  Lord  Hatterleigh  is  waiting  for  you,  Miss  Seckerton," 
he  said  cheerily  ;  and  she  rose  at  once  without  a  word,  and 
took  his  arm.  She  was  rather  pale,  and  he  felt  her  arm 
tremble  just  once,  but  she  was  perfectly  self-possessed 
when  they  got  among  the  other  people ;  and  Granby  chat- 
tered away  merrily,  and  continued  to  do  so  until  he  had 
packed  her  into  the  pony-carriage  beside  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh, who  had  got  in  and  was  sitting  on  the  left  side, 
waiting  for  Granby  himself — having  made  the  last  feebly 
desperate  effort  to  gain  a  little  more  time. 

Granby  saw  them  drive  off,  and  found  his  warm  little 
heart  nearer  to  his  eyes  than  he  liked.  He  chattered  and 
made  himself  agreeable  all  day  to  everyone,  but  at  night 
he  said  to  himself  when  he  was  alone  in  his  bedroom — 
"  God  help  that  poor  girl !  God  Almighty  help  her  !  Oh, 
it  is  monstrous — monstrous !  " 

Meanwhile  Lord  Hatterleigh  had  said  to  Laura :  "  Will 
you  drive,  Miss  Seckerton,  as  you  are  on  the  right  side  ?  " 
And  Laura  said  "  Yes,"  and  away  went  the  pony  (an  ex- 
moor — that  is  to  say,  having  a  considerable  share  of  Barb 
blood,  and  standing  fourteen  hands)  like  a  steam-engine. 
They  were  out  of  the  park  and  through  Winkworthy  be- 
fore either  of  them  seemed  to  find  time  for  speaking ;  but 
when  the  pony  slackened  up  the  first  hill,  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh laughed,  not  with  his  ordinary  idiotic  cackle,  by  any 
means,  but  pleasantly  enough,  and  said — 

"  I  am  glad  you  drove.  I  am  such  an  outrageous  muff 
that  I  can't  even  drive  a  pony.  This  pony  would  have 
found  me  out  before  this,  and  run  up  a  tree,  or  done 
something  or  another." 

"  You  should  practise,"  said  Laura. 

"  No  good — no  good  !  I  have  practised  shooting,  but  I 
shoot  so  badly  that  my  own  brother  swears  at  me.  I  was 
sent  into  the  world  with  two  left  sides  ;  I  am  an  ambi- 

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sinister.  I  can't  even  catch  trout — at  least  I  only  catch 
junior  and  inexperienced  trout,  and  I  fall  into  the  water  in 
doing  that.  Now,  who  is  to  answer  for  this  state  of  things  ? 
What  is  the  good  of  my  having  fifty  thousand  a-year  if  I 
have  two  left  legs  and  another  man's  arms  ?  " 

Laura  suggested  that  he  might  do  a  great  deal  with  his 
money.  She  mentioned  hospitals,  industrial  exhibitions 
lor  the  working-classes ;  but  found  herself  dwelling  on 
flower-shows,  being  in  a  foolish  frame  of  mind,  and  nat- 
urally harping  on  the  most  foolish  idea.  She  forced  home 
the  necessity  of  these  flower-shows  upon  him  with  consid- 
erable volubility  ;  but  finding  herself  somewhat  entangled 
in  proving  the  moral  effects  of  china-asters,  she  saw  that 
she  was  talking  unutterable  nonsense  to  gain  time,  and 
wisely  held  her  tongue  until  it  was  all  over. 

"  Well,  I  do  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  Laura,"  he 
said.  "  God  knows  I  do  heartily  whatever  my  hand  finds 
to  do,  but  I  am  what  they  call  a  muff ;  and  if  you  married 
me,  you  would  make  me  little  else.  The  time  is  gone  by 
— nay,  the  time  never  existed.  But,  Laura,  I  am  neither 
coward  nor  liar,  as  you  will  find  if  you  say  '  yes '  to  the 
question  I  am  going  to  ask  you.  Can  you  marry  me  ? 
There  is  no  hurry  for  your  answer.  I  urge  nothing  in  my 
own  favour,  you  observe.  Give  me  an  answer  before  we 
reach  the  end  of  the  next  mile,  and  that  shall  be  final." 

Laura  could  not  help  turning  and  looking  at  him.  She 
had  her  answer  ready,  and  was  determined  to  deliver  it 
face  to  face,  with  her  eyes  on  his.  So  she  turned ;  and 
she  saw  him  as  she  had  never  seen  him  before,  and  knew 
him  for  the  first  time.  Now  that  he  was  sitting  in  perfect 
repose — now  that  his  fantastic  manner  was  out  of  the 
play — she  saw  what  a  noble  creature  he  was.  She  was 
clever  enough  to  know  that  his  brain  was  not  first-class — 
that  his  family  was  getting  worn  out ;  but  she  had  sense 
enough  to  see  that  his  face,  now  that  it  was  at  rest,  was 
a  very  noble  one — and  to  feel  that  the  calm  patience  with 
which  he  waited  for  her  answer,  showed  that  he  had  a 


Leighton  Court 

gentleman's  soul  in  spite  of  his  fantastic  habits.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  her  woman's  instinct  which  told  her  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her ;  but  woman's  instinct  is  a  thing 
which  I  don't  understand,  nor  you,  and  least  of  all  the 
women  themselves. 

He  soon  felt  that  she  was  looking  at  him.  He  turned 
on  her  kindly  and,  to  say  the  truth,  grandly,  and  said — 

"  Well,  is  the  answer  ready  so  soon  ?  " 

Laura  said :  "  The  answer  has  been  ready  since  this 
morning.  My  mother  prepared  me  for  all  this.  The 
answer  is, '  Yes.'  If  you  had  asked  me  at  breakfast-time 
this  morning,  the  answer  would  have  been  a  complimen- 
tary '  yes ; '  now  it  is  a  very  decided  '  yes  '  indeed." 

"  Then  you  think  you  can  get  to  love  me  ?  " 

"  Not  better  than  I  do  at  present !  I  always  loved  you, 
Lord  Hatterleigh,  and  I  love  you  better  than  ever  now. 
I  think  you  are  a  noble  person  ;  but  you  do  not  do  your- 
self justice.  Let  me  give  you  our  first  confidence.  This 
morning  I  was  ready  to  submit — now  I  am  ready  to  ac- 
quiesce. I  think " 

Ah  !  that  one  glance  at  the  wild  tide-beaten  sands,  far 
below  their  feet,  which  showed  her  that  she  was  speaking 
falsely,  though  she  meant  so  earnestly  and  so  honestly 
every  word  she  said  !  Step  out,  old  pony,  and  carry  us 
deep  into  the  green  woodlands  beside  the  rushing  river ;  and 
leave  the  sands  far  behind,  with  the  dead  man  buried  in 
them.  The  dead  man's  memory  walks  there  like  a  ghost, 
and  will  walk  for  ever ;  but  like  other  ghosts,  if  not  seen, 
will  be  forgotten  and  discredited.  On  into  the  woodlands 
then  ! 

They  all  met  in  the  glen,  at  a  place  where  the  trees 
were  so  high,  large,  and  dense,  that  you  could  only  see 
the  overhanging  cliffs  here  and  there  among  the  topmost 
boughs.  The  river,  tired  of  streaming  from  crag  to  crag 
of  granite,  slept  in  a  deep  black  pool,  over  whose  surface 
the  foam-flakes  slowly  travelled  in  gentle  curves.  There 
was  silence  close  at  hand  all  around  ;  but,  farther  off,  the 

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ceaseless  rush  of  water  came  softly  and  pleasantly  to  the 
ear.  About  the  edge  of  the  water  were  broad  shelves  of 
granite,  mostly  carpeted  with  moss ;  while  on  the  edge 
which  ran  farthest  into  the  pool,  there  stood  a  great  Lo- 
gan-stone, which  seemed  as  if  a  child's  hand  might  topple 
it  into  the  river.  The  summer  sun  streamed  through  a 
deep  boscage  of  king-fern  and  hazel.  It  was  a  perfect 
place  for  a  picnic  ! 

Laura  and  Lord  Hatterleigh  noticed  to  one  another,  as 
soon  as  they  looked  round,  that  the  central  figure  in  the 
landscape  was  a  very  singular  one.  Sir  Harry  Poyntz 
happened  to  be  standing  apart  from  everyone,  on  the  edge 
of  the  water,  looking  about  him.  He  had  dressed  himself, 
as  he  usually  did,  very  oddly,  and  looked  utterly  unlike 
anyone  else.  With  the  exception  of  the  blazing  breloques 
on  his  waistcoat,  and  the  rings  on  his  fingers,  everything 
about  him  was  brilliantly  black  and  white — white  trousers, 
waistcoat,  and  hat,  but  a  black-velvet  coat  and  lacquered 
shoes,  all  in  a  state  of  catlike  cleanliness  and  neatness. 

"  Look  how  that  fellow's  clothes  are  cut,  said  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh. "  They  won't  make  such  clothes  for  me ;  and 
it's  no  use  my  going  to  his  tailor.  Look  at  him,  Laura  ! 
Do  you  see  that  he  is  blowing  his  nose,  and  that  he  has  a 
tinted  handkerchief  and  primrose-coloured  gloves,  which 
have  the  effect  of  making  his  waxen  complexion  look 
healthy  ?  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  clever  fellow  ?  " 

Laura  had  no  time  to  laugh,  as  she  felt  very  much  in- 
clined to  do,  for  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  came  towards  the  pair ; 
and  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  but  none  in  the  cold  shallow 
blue  eye,  asked  Laura,  to  her  great  surprise,  if  she  had 
seen  Colonel  Hilton  ? 

"  He  is  not  coming ;  indeed,  he  was  not  asked,  I  be- 
lieve," said  Laura,  with  the  most  perfect  coolness — a  cool- 
ness which  had  the  effect  of  irritating  her  mother  extreme- 
ly. She  wanted  to  get  some  hint  of  the  result  of  the  drive 
in  the  pony-carriage  :  "  Had  that  booby  spoken  ?  "  Laura 
gave  no  sign. 


Leighton  Court 

"  Oh  !  bother  it  all,"  said  Sir  Harry ;  "  isn't  he  coming  ? 
Then  I  shall  have  to  take  care  of  my  own  wife  ;  this  is  too 
bad!" 

"  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  Harry,  I  daresay,"  said  Lady 
Poyntz,  bridling. 

"  Can  you  ?  "  said  he.  "  From  watching  you  and  him 
together,  I  should  have  thought  that  you  could  scarcely 
have  cut  up  your  own  dinner  without  him  !  " 

"  What  a  reckless  lunatic  that  man  is,  George,  to  speak 
so  to  that  poor  woman !  "  said  Laura,  aside,  to  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  called  him  by  his 
Christian  name ;  he  turned,  and  looked  at  her  gratefully ; 
and  Laura  was  astonished,  he  really  looked  very  hand- 
some. Could  this  be  the  booby  of  this  morning  ? 

"  Where  will  this  end  ?  "  he  said  to  Laura.  "  What  can 
the  man  be  doing  it  for  ?  To  gird  at  her  in  society  before 
they  have  been  six  weeks  married  !  I  can't  endure  that 
fellow,  Laura.  I  know  nothing  of  him,  except  this,  that  I 
hate  him  !  " 

"  You  should  not  hate  anybody,  George." 

"  Very  like — very  like  !  But  I  hate  that  man,  however. 
Are  you  fond  of  cats  ?  " 

"  For  the  sake  of  argument,  no.     But  why  ?  " 

"  Because  that  man  is  a  cat.  Look  at  him  ;  look  at  his 
stealthy  grace — look  at  his  perfect  cleanliness  and  neat- 
ness, and  look  at  his  hopeless,  unutterable  selfishness.  I'll 
go  up,  and  make  him  purr  for  you  directly.  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  more  wonderfully  bizarre  and  attractive  than 
the  fellow's  dress  ?  If  he  chose  to  be  decently  civil  to  his 
wife,  that  sentimental  whiskerando  Hilton  would  have  no 
chance  with  him.  Hiltons  are  as  common  as  blackber- 
ries ;  anyone  could  manage  him — there  would  be  no  credit 
to  her  in  dragging  him  at  her  chariot-wheels.  But  there 
is  only  one  Harry  Poyntz.  If  he  would  only  allow  her, 
before  society,  the  reputation  of  having  mastered  such  a 
notoriously  dangerous  tiger  as  he  is,  she  would  be  proud 

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of  him,  and  would  get  to  love  him.  But  he  won't ;  it  is 
not  his  game  ;  I  can't  understand  his  game  the  least  in  the 
world.  I  suspect  there  is  a  good  deal  of  caprice  and  whim 
about  the  man.  Those  effeminate  men  acquire  feminine 
vices,  I  expect :  childish  love  of  power,  causeless  ill-tem- 
per, and  cap " 

Laura  looked  at  him  with  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
drawn  down  demurely,  and  they  both  burst  out  laughing. 

Sir  Harry  and  Lady  Poyntz  were  having  a  few  words 
meanwhile. 

"  I  cannot  conceive,  Harry,"  she  said,  "  what  you  pro- 
pose to  yourself  in  treating  me  like  this  in  public.  If  you 
could  help  it  I  shall  be  glad  ;  if  you  can't  I  shall  retaliate. 
I  could  be  very  disagreeable,  mind  !  " 

"  Oh  no,  you  couldn't,  my  love ;  you  couldn't  say  any- 
thing which  these  dear  friends  of  ours  have  not  said  a 
hundred  times  over.  Bless  the  dear  little  fool,  you  haven't 
heard  half  the  lies  about  me  yet !  But  there  is  no  cause 
for  anger  in  this  case ;  I  only  chaffed  you  about  Hilton 
because  I  saw  it  annoyed  Laura  Seckerton." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  sharpen  your  wits  on  your  wife. 
Why  don't  you  bring  Captain  Wheaton,  and  make  him 
your  foil  ?  " 

"  The  people  won't  have  my  helot ;  my  helot  gets  drunk 
and  becomes  offensive,  and  what  is  amusing  to  me  is 
disgusting  to  them.  Take  care  where  you  are  standing, 
you  will  catch  fire.  By  Jove,  you  are  on  fire ;  take 
care ! " 

It  was  true.  The  grooms  had  made  a  fire  on  the  rock, 
as  being  a  necessary  part  of  any  picnic  ;  and  Lady  Poyntz, 
in  drawing  herself  up  tragically  before  her  husband,  had 
backed  against  it,  and  her  flowered  muslin  dress  was  send- 
up  half-a-dozen  tiny  wreaths  of  white  smoke,  just  prepar- 
ing to  burst  into  a  blaze. 

Laura  and  Lord  Hatterleigh  were  watching  the  pair, 
and  saw  the  accident.  Laura  gave  a  wild  scream,  and 
Lord  Hatterleigh  a  roar.  He  rose  up,  tore  off  his  coat, 

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and,  as  he  hurled  his  ungainly  length  towards  them,  was 
heard  by  the  terrified  spectators  to  cry  out — 

"  Throw  her  down,  Poyntz ;  throw  her  down  into  the 
wet  moss.  The  fool,  why  does  he  stand  staring  there  ? 
Are  you  fit  for  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  ?  Throw  her 
down." 

By  the  time  he  had  relieved  his  feelings  so  far,  he  had 
got  hold  of  her  and  fairly  tumbled  her  down,  trying  with 
his  coat  to  smother  the  fire.  Fortunately  for  her,  they  fell 
together  among  deep  wet  moss  at  the  edge  of  the  water, 
with  the  fire  underneath.  But  the  fire  was  strong ;  and 
Laura,  standing  horror-struck,  saw  his  long,  lean,  delicate 
white  hand  in  the  midst  of  it  four  or  five  times  as  he  tried 
to  smother  it  with  his  coat,  before  his  own  groom,  the  first 
man  who  recovered  his  senses,  put  it  out  by  baling  water 
on  it  from  his  hat. 

Then  Lord  Hatterleigh  got  up,  and  Lady  Poyntz  was 
helped  up ;  and  there  was  a  general  shrieking  and  gab- 
bling, in  the  midst  of  which  Laura  came  up  to  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh's  side,  and  found  him  thanking  his  groom. 

"  I  am  personally  obliged  to  you,  Sanders.  Your  fam- 
ily has  served  our  house  for  many  years  now,  and  has 
always  been  distinguished,  with  one  solitary  exception  " 
(brother  of  this  Sanders,  say  the  Archives,  who  got  himself 
bored  to  the  borders  of  Bedlam,  and  enlisted  in  the  i6th 
Light  Dragoons — a  rebellious  Sanders)  "  for  their  dexterity 
and  devotion.  This  shall  not  be  forgotten." 

The  present  Sanders  merely  touched  his  hat  in  acknowl- 
edgment, and  pointed  out  to  Laura,  as  being  a  thing  which 
decidedly  concerned  her  more  than  anyone  else,  that  his 
Lordship's  left  hand  was  terribly  burnt ;  after  which  he  went 
for  old  Doctor  Buscombe,  who  happened  luckily  to  be  of 
the  party,  and  who  was  wandering  in  the  wood  with  Lady 
Emily,  gathering  bilberries,  and  hearing  all  about  Lady 
Southmolton's  symptoms. 

Laura  took  Lord  Hatterleigh's  arm,  and  led  him  away. 
When  she  dared  to  look  at  his  left  hand  she  nearly  cried 

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out.  It  was  all  burnt  up  into  great  bladders — but  no  more 
of  that.  He  tried  to  laugh,  but  it  ended  in  a  feeble  cackle. 

"  Lucky  it  wasn't  the  right  one — eh,  Laura  ?  Shouldn't 
have  been  able  to  write.  I  should  have  been  obliged  to 
dictate  my  Limited  Liability  pamphlet  to  you  ;  and  you're 
so  stupid,  you  know ;  you'd  have  made  a  hundred  blun- 
ders, wouldn't  you,  now  ?  " 

"  I  should,  indeed.  Sit  down  here,  and  let  me  tie  my 
handkerchief  over  your  hand.  I  don't  like  this." 

"  Don't  like  what?  " 

"  This,  all  of  this.  It  is  all  getting  so  tragical,  and  so 
terrible.  Oh,  George !  George !  do,  whatever  happens, 
stay  by  me,  and  see  me  through  it.  Do  let  me  believe  that 
there  is  one  other  human  soul  in  whom  I  can  trust.  Be 
friendly  to  me,  George  ;  I  have  no  friend  left  but  you.  I 
always  loved  you,  George — I  always  trusted  you.  Be  a 
friend  to  me,  George,  for  I  am  all  alone,  George — all  alone, 
all  alone ! " 

This  from  his  imperial  bride,  whom  he  thought  so  hard 
to  win  !  It  set  him  thinking.  He  could  think  rapidly,  and 
generally  to  the  purpose  ;  besides,  to  use  a  term,  which  I 
cannot  replace  by  a  better  term,  "  his  heart  was  in  the  right 
place."  His  answer  was  soon  ready,  rough  as  it  was, — 

"  Laura,  if  the  Old  Gentleman  himself  comes  between 
you  and  me,  let  him  take  care.  I  am  a  peer  of  England, 
with  fifty  thousand  a  year  ;  that  still  counts  for  something, 
even  in  these  latter  days.  What  is  the  social  status  or  in- 
come of  the  gentleman  just  alluded  to,  I  don't  know ;  but 
let  him  take  care — a  British  peer  is  still  a  very  terrible  per- 
son !  Make  me  your  husband  as  soon  as  you  can,  and  we 
will  face  it  out  together.  Pitch  me  overboard  to-morrow, 
and  we  will  face  it  out  just  the  same." 

Their  t$te-&-t$te  was  ended.  The  Doctor  was  seen  ap- 
proaching rapidly  with  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  who  was  trying 
to  look  as  if  he  had  been  to  fetch  him.  While  the  Doctor 
was  untying  Laura's  pockethandkerchief  from  the  burnt 
hand.  Sir  Harry  spoke  to  Lord  Hatterleigh  in  a  gentle  quiet 

Ml 


Leighton  Court 

voice,  without  one  touch  of  scorn,  and  apparently  without 
the  slightest  arrttre pensee — with  the  strange  recklessness 
of  a  man  who  has  offended  the  world  past  forgiveness, 
and  has  become  utterly  contemptuous  of  it — 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  saving  my  wife's  life.  That  is, 
I  believe,  supposed  to  be  a  great  obligation,  although  it  has 
cost  me  thirty  thousand  pounds.  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  I  was  utterly  taken 
aback  when  the  accident  happened,  and  she  would  have 
been  burnt  to  death  before  I  should  have  realised  it, 
and  then  I  shouldn't  have  known  what  to  do.  You  have 
shown  an  extraordinary  amount  of  courage  and  sagacity — 
you  must  see  that  yourself.  I  have  entirely  changed  my 
opinion  of  you.  I  always  thought  you  a  half-witted  booby  ; 
and  so  did  you,  you  know,  Miss  Seckerton  ?  " 

It  was  horribly,  viciously  true — it  was  as  wicked  a  thing 
as  ever  was  said  ;  but  Lord  Hatterleigh's  quiet  beautiful 
good-humour  took  the  sting  out  of  it  in  a  moment,  and 
made  it  perfectly  innocuous — 

"  I  don't  know  whether  she  thought  so  ;  I  can  only  an- 
swer for  her  having  diligently  told  me  so  for  the  last  ten 
years.  Eh,  Laura  ?  " 

"  My  Lord,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  we  must  get  home  and 
have  this  dressed." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  home." 

"  You  must." 

"  Pish,  Doctor !  I  am  determined  to  stay  out  and  enjoy 
myself." 

"  Enjoy  yourself !  You  know  you  are  in  terrible  tort- 
ure ?  " 

"  By  no  means ;  I  am  enjoying  myself  thoroughly. 
Take  Sanders  home,  and  bring  your  bandages,  your  cot- 
ton-wool, your  fiddle-faddles  back.  You  needn't  be  gone 
half  an  hour.  Home,"  quoth  he — "  not  if  I  know  it ! " 

"  Hah  !  "  said  the  Doctor  to  Laura,  "  the  symptoms  are 
worse  than  I  thought.  Fever  is  setting  in  ;  he  is  getting 
tete  montte. — My  dear  lord,  I  am  astonished  that  one  who 

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has  always  taken  such  care  of  his  most  valuable  health 
should  trifle  with  a  serious  accident  of  this  kind."  And 
here  they  all  three  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Don't  let  him  chaff  me,  Laura.  —  But,  seriously,  is 
there  any  danger  in  my  staying  out  ?  " 

"  No  danger"  said  the  Doctor  ;  "  only,  if  you  persist  in 
staying  out,  I  shall  think  that  Sir  Harry  Poyntz's  former 
estimate  of  your  character  was — was — well,  I  won't  say 
what." 

"  And  Miss  Seckerton's  too,  remember.  A  half-witted 
booby,  eh  ?  Well,  I'll  submit ;  I  must  act  up  to  my  new 
character.  I  suppose  you  couldn't  quit  this  festive  scene, 
Laura,  and  drive  me  home  ?  By-the-bye,  Doctor,  I  ought 
to  tell  you  I  am  engaged  to  Miss  Seckerton." 

"  A  bad  thing  for  me,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Very  bad.  If  you  are  the  man  I  take  you  for,  you 
will  go  and  get  the  pony-carriage  for  us.  I'd  do  the  same 
for  you." 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  the  Doctor  to  himself,  as  chorus, 
going  on  his  errand,  "  what  stuff  there  is  in  this  good- 
humoured  gaby.  There  may  be  something.  He  comes 
of  a  good  stock,  and  has  shown  pluck  and  resource  to- 
day ;  but  I  fear  he  has  thought  about  himself  and  his  in- 
side too  long,  and  that  this  is  only  a  grand  show-off. 
Noblesse  oblige,  but  noblesse  and  dinner-pills  —  bah!  I 
can't  believe  in  it  yet.  He  has  got  that  peerless  girl  to 
consent  to  marry  him,  and  he  is  bent  on  showing  that  he 
is  not  the  miserable  effeminate  ass  which  the  world  has 
written  him  down.  When  the  necessity  for  showing-off 
before  her  is  gone,  he  will  sink  back  into  his  old  valetudi- 
narian selfishness  again.  A  man  don't  study  himself  for 
fourteen  years,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  matters,  and 
then  turn  out  a  hero  at  the  end.  She,  pretty  storyteller,  has 
been  telling  him  that  she  loves  him — oh,  woman  !  woman  ! 
woman  !— and  he  has  believed  her.  When  he  finds  out 
how  she  has  lied,  the  last  state  of  that  man  will  be  worse 
than  the  first." 

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But  when  the  Vicar  heard  of  it,  he  said  :  "  I  always 
thought  well  of  that  young  man  from  a  boy.  His  mother 
nearly  spoilt  him,  but  he  will  do  now.  He  only  wanted 
arousing." 


Chapter  XXIX 

AND  so  Laura  was  enabled  to  say,  without  exciting  any 
surprise,  on  the  day  before  the  cub-hunting  began, — 

"  I  shall  not  hunt  this  year,  my  dear  father.  George 
has  pressed  me  very  eagerly  to  do  so,  but  I  don't  think  it 
would  be  fair  on  him.  He  "can't  hunt  himself." 

There  was,  undeniably,  good  sense  in  this.  Sir  Charles 
sighed  and  gave  up  the  question,  seeing  that  he  should 
have  to  hunt  his  short  remaining  time  by  himself.  But  he 
found  her  waiting  for  him  at  his  early  breakfast.  She 
made  him  his  tea  as  of  old,  paid  the  little  attentions  to  his 
necktie,  and  made  him  as  smart  and  as  spruce  as  possible  ; 
and  she  sent  him  off  with  a  kiss,  and  stood  laughing  at 
the  door  in  the  early  autumn  morning,  as  the  tall,  spare, 
gentlemanly  figure  rode  down  the  avenue  alone.  She 
noticed  how  bent  he  was  getting,  and  said  with  a  sigh, — 

"Well,  and  so  there's  an  end  of  all  that!  I  shall 
wonder  at  nothing  now.  I  knew  a  young  lady  once,  called 
Laura  Seckerton,  and  a  jolly  young  lady  she  was  ;  but  I 
don't  know  what  has  become  of  her.  There  is  the  church- 
bell  ! " 

The  Vicar  had  been  profoundly  astonished  at  this  en- 
gagement with  Lord  Hatterleigh.  If  he  was  in  any  way 
offended  with  Laura  for  not  having  asked  his  advice,  he 
was  too  sensible,  with  all  his  fantastic  ritualisms,  to  show  it. 
He  knew  that  if  Laura  had  ever  had  the  slightest  idea  of 
following  his  advice,  she  would  certainly  have  asked  it. 
Therefore,  when  she  told  him  of  it,  he  only  gave  her  his 
affectionate  blessing;  and  as  soon  as  he  could  get  rid 
of  her,  went  and  told  his  wife,  saying  to  her  what  we 

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have  mentioned  above  as  a  per  contra  to  the  Doctor's 
opinion. 

The  "  Umbrella  "  was  rather  more  savage  about  this 
engagement  than  she  was  about  Maria  Huxtable's.  Her 
life  is  only  noticeable  for  these  few  outbreaks,  as  the 
history  of  a  volcano  is  only  the  history  of  its  eruptions. 
On  this  occasion  she  made  an  A.D.  63  business  of  it. 
After  twenty  years'  quiescence  she  rose  upon  her  husband, 
and  overwhelmed  him  ;  he  being  as  unsuspecting  of  such 
a  thing  being  possible,  as  ever  were  the  inhabitants  of 
Pompeii,  when  they  saw  something  like  a  fir-tree  fifteen 
thousand  feet  high.  Yes,  she  turned  on  him  for  the  first 
and  last  time.  Their  servant  (probably  an  idle  and  un- 
trustworthy minx,  given  to  leasing)  put  it  about  after- 
wards, that  she  actually  shook  her  scarlet-gloved  fist  in  his 
reverend  face  :  it  is  pretty  certain,  seeing  that  he  told  the 
whole  business  to  his  most  excellent  gossip  Sir  Charles  Seck- 
erton,  that  she  "  went  in  on  him  "  very  much  in  this  style  : — 

"  This  is  a  most  villanous  business  !  Those  exasperat- 
ing old  trots,  Lady  Southmolton  and  Lady  Emily,  are 
allowing  the  girl  to  sell  herself.  Do  they  know  that  she 
was  in  love  with  Poyntz-Hammersley  ?  " 

"  With  whom  ?     I  didn't  catch  the  name." 

"  Yes,  you  did.  With  Poyntz-Hammersley,  the  man 
who  was  down  here  in  disguise.  Do  they  know  that — 
that  they  are  allowing  the  poor  girl  to  sell  herself,  for  bare 
respectability's  sake,  to  this  tomfool  ?  I  daresay  they  do. 
You  do  !  " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  now,  at  all  events,  because  you  don't  dare 
to  deny  it.  And  knowing  it,  why  didn't  you  prevent  her 
making  this  engagement  ?  " 

"  What  power  had  I  ?  " 

"  None,  I  hope ;  for  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  that,  if 
you  had  any,  you  would  have  been  such  a  coward  as  not 
to  exert  it.  Why  can't  you  confess  at  once  that  you  had 
no  power,  after  all  your  boasting  ?  " 

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"  My  power  is  limited  at  a  certain  point." 

"So  it  seems;  stops  short  of  the  useful  point  —  very 
short." 

"  Georgina,  you  are  losing  your  temper " 

"  I  am  not !  " 

"  But  I  could  easily  forgive  you  if  you  were.  I  don't 
like  it,  but  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  I 
could  have  done  ?  " 

Only  indignant  twitching  of  the  red  gloves.  The  Vicar 
had  administered  a  puzzler ;  and  he,  seeing  his  opportuni- 
ty, dexterously  and  at  once  soared  up  into  a  vast  moral 
height,  and  regarded  the  red  gloves,  as  though  through 
the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  in  infinite  perspective — 

"  Your  instincts,  like  those  of  most  women,  are  good ; 
your  capacity  of  judgment  and  your  knowledge  of  logic 
are,  as  in  the  case  of  all  women,  contemptible.  I  would 
have  prevented  this  if  I  could,  but  I  could  not.  No  one 
knows  better  than  yourself  that  the  wholesome  power  of 
the  priest  is,  for  the  present,  circumscribed  in  a  shameful 
manner." 

"  You  might  have  done  something.  You  might  have 
gone  to  dinner  there  Friday  week — fast-day — what  is  a 
fast-day  to  Laura's  happiness  ?  Besides,  there  were  filleted 
soles  and  crimped  skate — Mrs.  Border  showed  me  her  bill- 
of-fare— and  you  might  have  spoken  your  mind.  You 
might  have  pointed  out  quietly  to  Lord  Hatterleigh,  that 
he  was  notoriously  the  greatest  gaby  and  goose  in  the 
Three  Kingdoms,  and  that  he  never  could  be  happy  with 
Laura  ;  or  you  might  have  wrapped  the  whole  thing  up 
in  an  allegory." 

"  As  how?  " 

"  That's  entirely  your  business.  You  are  clever  enough 
at  allegories,  when  you  choose.  I  never  know  when  you 
are  speaking  in  allegories,  or  speaking  the  truth.  I 
thought  it  was  all  true  about  Saint  Bristow,  till  you  told 
me  it  was  an  allegory,  and  the  school-children  believe  it 
as  much  as  the  Babes  in  the  Wood  to  this  day.  If  you 

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had  gone  to  dinner  on  Friday  week,  and  wrapped  it  up  in 
an  allegory,  the  thing  would  have  been  stopped.  As  it  is, 
Laura  Seckerton  is,  entirely  owing  to  you,  going  to  marry 
Guy  Fawkes ! " 


Chapter  XXX 

GUY  FAWKES,  however,  as  the  Vicar's  wife  called  him, 
made  a  most  attentive  lover  :  he  used  to  ride  or  drive  over 
from  Grimwood  every  day,  and  spend  many  hours  with 
Laura,  interfering  sadly  with  the  regularity  of  her  life,  and 
her  methodical  arrangements  ;  and  of  course  she  submitted 
uncomplainingly. 

Nay,  more.  These  interruptions  of  Lord  Hatterleigh 
were  far  from  unpleasant.  Those  good  folks  who  said  to 
one  another,  "  How  can  that  noble  girl  endure  that  booby 
for  ten  minutes  ?  "  knew  very  little  either  of  Laura  or  of 
Lord  Hatterleigh.  In  the  first  place,  all  her  hundred-and- 
one  rules  and  regulations,  though  bravely  persisted  in, 
were,  so  far  from  being  any  relief,  becoming  intolerably 
irksome.  They  had  always  been  tiresome  to  her  in  the 
old  times  ;  but  she  had  grown  into  the  creed  that  the  on- 
ly 'difference  between  an  Englishwoman  and  a  foreign 
woman,  the  only  difference  between  an  immaculate  saint 
and  an  ordinary  sinner,  consisted  in  the  adherence  to 
these  aforesaid  rules.  That  the  immaculate  saints,  when 
they  did  fall,  made  a  far  worse  mess  of  it  than  the  ordinary 
sinners,  who  had  not  pitched  their  pipes  too  high,  she 
had  long  suspected ;  but  she  had  been  brought  up  to  con- 
sider that  the  only  life  possible  for  a  decent  woman  was 
that  of  the  well-regulated  British  female  of  the  superior 
classes,  and  on  to  this  belief  she  had  engrafted  the  Trac- 
tarianism  she  had  learned  from  the  Vicar.  Whether  the 
creed  she  had  knocked  up,  between  Hannah-More  regu- 
larities and  ultra-high-church  regularities  would  not  hold 
together,  or  whether  her  mind  had  all  along  been  too  ex- 

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tremely  ill-regulated  for  either,  is  a  question  we  must  leave 
to  abler  hands  to  decide.  We  have  only  to  do  with  re- 
sults ;  and  the  results  were,  first  and  last,  unsatisfactory. 

Last,  more  particularly  :  when  she  had  that  terrible 
fright  about  Poyntz-Hammersley,  she  began  to  believe  her 
grandmother  once  more,  and  fled  back  to  her  old  formulas. 
She  found  them  deader  than  ever  —  so  very  dead,  that 
when  she  recognised  that  the  submitting  to  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh's  attention  was  part  of  her  duty,  she  found  at  the 
same  time  that  his  babble  was  the  only  thing  in  life  that 
she  cared  for.  When  he  was  absent  she  went  on  with  her 
other  duties — her  regular  reading,  her  poor,  her  schools,  or 
what-not.  But  as  day  after  day  went  on  she  began  to 
look  more  eagerly  for  his  coming,  and,  to  his  great  de- 
light, to  chide  him  for  being  late.  She  had  always  liked 
the  man,  and  she  liked  him  better  day  by  day.  Though 
he  at  first  gobbled  like  a  turkey-cock,  and  blundered 
about  like  a  hobbled  donkey,  yet  what  he  said  was  far 
better  worth  hearing  than  anything  else  she  heard  ;  and  as 
for  clumsiness,  he  improved  rapidly. 

"  I  wish,"  he  said  once,  "  that  I  could  put  you  on  your 
horse." 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  then  we  could  ride  together ;  and  it  seems  so 
shameful  to  me  that  you  should  have  given  up  your  riding 
on  my  account." 

"  Would  you  like  to  ride  with  me,  then  ?  " 

"  I  would  give  anything  to  do  so ;  but  I  should  pitch 
you  over.  And  I  can't  ride." 

"  You  ride  well  enough,  and  the  stud-groom  can  put  me 
on.  Do  you  desire  that  I  should  ride  with  you  ?  " 

He  laughed,  and  so  did  she.  "  I  make  a  formal  request 
that  you  ride  with  me." 

"  I  obey,  of  course,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  ride  with  me 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Shall  we  go  with  your  father  to  the  meet  ?  "  he  said 
eagerly.  "  I  know  you  would  like  it." 

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"  What  can  we  want  at  the  meet,  my  dear  George  ? 
Every  man  can't  ride  to  hounds,  and  you  can't.  I  don't  love 
you  or  respect  you  one  whit  the  less  for  it,  but  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  sneered  at  by  all  the  horsebreakers  and  horse- 
dealers  on  that  account.  Come  with  me  over  the  sands." 

So  they  went — farther  and  farther  each  day  ;  poor  and 
schools  being  more  and  more  neglected  for  a  week.  At 
the  end  of  that  time,  Laura  made  her  appearance  one 
night  in  her  father's  dressing-room,  as  of  old,  and,  putting 
her  arm  round  his  neck,  said — 

"  George  and  I  have  got  such  a  quarrel  with  you,  you 
wicked  and  unfeeling  old  man  !  " 

"  My  darling,  why  ?  " 

"  You  never  come  and  ride  with  us ;  you  treat  us  like 
the  dust  under  your  feet.  If  you  want  us  ever  to  speak  to 
you  again,  you  will  come  and  ride  with  us  to-morrow." 

He  could  only  kiss  her  and  cry.  Poor  old  gentleman  ! 
with  all  the  ruin  hanging  over  their  heads,  and  he  afraid 
to  realise  it  to  himself,  still  more  afraid  to  tell  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh  the  truth.  But  he  came  with  them  day  after  day, 
and,  for  the  first  time  for  so  many  years,  was  sorry  when 
a  hunting-day  came,  and  they  were  separated.  He  forgot 
that  he  was  ruined  during  these  rides ;  he  only  remem- 
bered it  in  the  dark  watches  of  the  night,  while  the  uncon- 
scious Lady  Emily  murdered  sleep  by  his  side.  They  rode 
everywhere  these  three,  Sir  Charles  pioneering — by  the 
river,  through  the  woodlands,  up  the  glen,  on  the  moun- 
tain ridge,  along  the  sands.  They  talked  of  everything — 
of  hounds,  politics,  other  folks'  housekeeping,  Constance 
Downcs'  match,  bullocks,  ploughs,  cottages  and  their  im- 
provement, horses,  and  servants.  But  there  was  one  horse 
they  never  spoke  of — "  The  Elk  ;  "  there  was  one  servant 
they  never  mentioned — Poyntz-Hammersley ;  and  there 
was  one  ride  they  never  rode — the  bay  under  Leighton 
Castle,  where  "  The  Elk  "  lay  dead  on  the  morning  after 
the  dark  night  in  which  Poyntz-Hammersley  had  been 
lost  in  the  quicksands. 


Leighton  Court 


Chapter  XXXI 

"  IT  is  all  getting  so  terrible  and  so  tragical,"  said 
Laura  once  before.  So  it  was,  though  she  knew  nothing 
of  her  father's  impending  ruin.  She  could  see  that  her 
mother  and  her  grandmother  knew  nothing,  or  would 
know  nothing,  of  the  great  tragedy  which  was  being 
played  around  them  :  of  her  state  of  mind,  for  instance, 
with  regard  to  Poyntz  -  Hammersley  and  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh ;  or,  again,  of  the  relations  between  Sir  Harry 
Poyntz,  his  wife,  and  Colonel  Hilton  ;  which  last  were  get- 
ting horridly  confused  in  Laura's  mind.  Whatever  hap- 
pened, she  was  sure  that  they  would  have  a  respectability 
handy,  and  would  get  over  it :  "  My  dear,  he  was  a  hand- 
some fellow,  and  Laura  behaved  with  great  discretion — far 
better  than  poor  dear  Lady  Becky ;  "  or,  "  My  dear,  he 
used  her  shamefully,  and  she  went  off  with  Colonel  Hil- 
ton. She  must  never  be  mentioned  again."  Laura  was 
right.  If  they  had  known  of  Sir  Charles'  difficulties,  they 
would  only  have  said,  "  Poor  dear  Charles  has  been  living 
too  fast !  "  That  would  have  been  their  formula  for  ruin  ; 
and  they  would  have  gone  to  Baden  with  the  utmost  com- 
placency, and  without  any  loss  of  dignity.  The  thing  had 
happened  before  to  dozens  of  people  in  their  rank  of  life, 
and  with  their  way  of  living ;  therefore,  there  was  nothing 
shocking  about  it  —  nothing  particular  to  grieve  about. 
Laura  knew  this,  and  knew  that  it  would  be  a  more  shock- 
ing thing,  in  her  grandmother's  eyes,  if  Sir  Charles  had 
sold  his  grapes  or  his  game,  than  if  he  had  lived  beyond 
his  income  in  doing  usual  extravagances,  and  had  landed 
them  all  au  premier  at  Brussels. 

She  had  done  with  these  two  ladies,  and  she  felt  less  in- 
clined to  renew  her  confidence  with  them  every  day  ;  for 
she  had  found  a  friend — Lord  Hatterleigh.  Every  day 
she  felt  more  respect  for  him,  and  every  day  she  felt  more 

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and  more  that,  with  that  noble,  high-minded,  highly-edu- 
cated oddity  at  her  side,  that  she  could  face  the  world  in 
arms.  There  was  not  perfect  confidence  between  them, 
and  that  made  her  at  times  uneasy.  Much  as  she  loved 
him,  he  was  no  lover  of  hers.  One  night,  while  Sir  Harry 
Poyntz  was  walking  up-and-down  his  room,  and  thinking 
when  he  should  begin  to  poison  Lord  Hatterleigh's  mind 
against  her,  she  was  tossing  on  her  bed,  brimful  of  the 
resolution  of  breaking  off  her  engagement  with  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh,  and  taking  him  for  her  friend.  She  never  did  so. 
She  let  things  drive  ;  she  did  not  move  in  the  matter  any 
more  than  did  Sir  Harry  Poyntz.  They  both  bided  their 
time. 

But  the  pleasure  she  felt  in  the  confidence  and  conver- 
sation of  this  man  was  very  great ;  she  revelled  in  it. 
She  told  him  everything  (save  that  one,  and  got  to  forget 
that,  and  to  act  about  it  as  she  did  when  it  first  happened 
— to  shove  it  back  into  her  deepest  consciousness,  with 
such  success  that  she  thought  it  was  going  to  stay  there). 
She  told  him  of  her  systematic  bringing-up,  and  her  early 
rebellions — and  he  laughed  ;  of  her  religionism — and  he 
spoke  gravely  and  well,  praising  her  and  blaming  her  con- 
fidentially and  sensibly  :  showing  her  the  absurdity  of  run- 
ning into  these  extremes,  and,  in  the  end,  persuading  her 
to  return  in  a  moderate  manner  to  her  old  routine  ;  and, 
as  part  of  it,  took  to  going  to  church  on  saints'  days  with 
her  himself.  Her  grandmother  could  not  have  been  more 
discreet  than  this  youth ;  sometimes,  however,  she  was 
forced  to  laugh  when  he  got  too  priggish.  There  was  per- 
fect equality  between  them  ;  it  was  all  give-and-take.  He 
was  a  strong  anti-Tractarian  —  would  have  been,  if  he 
could,  leader  of  the  Oxford  Liberals  ;  and  they  had  many 
a  fine  fight  over  that  matter.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
merciless  about  untidiness,  and  bullied  him  systematically 
about  his  personal  appearance,  until  he  got  to  put  on  his 
clothes  in  a  decent  manner,  and  to  come  into  the  room 
without  falling  into  the  fireplace.  In  short,  they  did  one 

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another  a  great  deal  of  good — as  any  two  honest  people 
may,  if  they  will  only  speak  the  truth  to  one  another.  She 
by  degrees  laughed  him  out  of  his  sententious  Daniel- 
come- to- judgment  way  of  talking ;  and  he,  though  some- 
times in  a  fantastical  way,  put  more  good  sense  and  knowl- 
edge of  the  way  in  which  the  world  wags  into  her  head 
than  ever  had  been  there  before. 

In  the  full  luxury  of  the  new-found  confidence  between 
them,  the  following  dialogue  took  place  one  day  when 
they  were  riding  together  : — 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  there  is  something  very  near  my 
heart,  and  you  must  share  it." 

He  said — &c.  &c.  &c. — just  what  you  or  I  would  say. 

"  Don't  cackle ;  and  you  shouldn't  giggle  after  such  a 
speech  as  that ;  and  you  have  got  your  feet  too  far  in  your 
stirrups,  and  are  turning  your  toes  out.  Men  who  don't 
hunt  shouldn't  ride  like  grooms.  Keep  your  toes  in  as  if 
you  were  in  the  Row." 

"  Is  that  what  was  so  near  your  heart  ?  " 

"  Now,  pray,  don't  be  funny  ;  remember  the  bull  in  the 
china-shop." 

"  I  will — and  turn  my  toes  in  too.  There  !  Now  then, 
Laura ;  if  you  are  going  to  be  serious,  be  so." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  you  are  in  a  fit  state  of  mind 
to  be  consulted  with  ;  you  are  a  trifle  rebellious,  and  I  have 

a  good  mind But,  George  dear,  let  us  be  in  earnest ; 

I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  Maria  Poyntz." 

Lord  Hatterleigh  looked  over  his  shoulder  to  the  groom, 
and  said,  "  Go  home  to  the  Court,  and  borrow  me  a  clean 
pockethandkerchief  from  Sir  Charles'  valet."  And  he 
went. 

"  What  about  her?  " 

"  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done  ?  Is  there  no  way  to  warn 
them — to  warn  her  ?  " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  try  ?  " 

"I  only  want  your  sanction." 

"  Then  you  have  it.     God  speed  you  !  " 

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Chapter  XXXII 

"  Is  Captain  Wheaton  come  in  ?  "  said  Sir  Harry  Poyntz 
to  his  valet  one  day,  about  half  an  hour  before  dinner. 

"  He  has  been  in  some  time,  Sir  Harry ;  he  is  smoking 
in  the  library." 

"  He  has  no  business  to  smoke  there,  unless  I  am  pres- 
ent. Did  you  tell  him  that  he  was  to  come  to  me  the 
moment  he  came  in  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Sir  Harry." 

"  Then  why  the  devil  didn't  he  come  ?  Lawrence,  that 
man  is  getting  too  much  of  a  gentleman  for  us ;  he  must 
have  a  lesson." 

"  The  best  lesson  you  could  give  him,  Sir  Harry,  would 
be  to  pack  him  about  his  business." 

"  But  who  is  to  do  the  dirty  work — the  spying,  inform- 
ing, mischief-making,  gaining  information,  and  so  on  ? 
You  won't.  I  have  asked  you  more  than  once,  and  you 
flatly  refused.  Who  is  to  do  it  ?  " 

"  Nobody,  Sir  Harry ;  leave  it  undone." 

"  Ah  !  but  you're  a  fool,  you  know.  There  is  not  a  man 
or  woman  within  ten  miles  who  is  not  a  rogue — except  you, 
you  know,  of  course,  and  my  Lady  Poyntz — of  course  I 
except  my  Lady  Poyntz — and  roguery  must  be  met  by 
finesse.  Send  him  up." 

He  soon  came,  whistling  :  an  evil-looking  creature,  with 
his  eyes  too  near,  too  deeply  set,  and  too  shifty,  and  a  nasty 
grin  on  the  mouth  of  him,  which  fortunately  could  only  be 
guessed  at,  not  seen,  under  his  beard. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Wheaton,"  said  Sir  Harry ;  "  I'll  give 
you  five  pounds  if  you'll  shave." 

" What  for?" 

"  I  love  my  money  better  than  anything  in  this  world — 
except,  of  course,  virtue,  and  my  Lady  Poyntz  ;  but  I  would 
give  five  pounds  to  see  your  villanous  face  without  all  that 

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hair  on  it :  only  as  a  matter  of  curiosity  I  would.  I  hate 
this  beard-and-moustache  movement.  One  used  to  be 
able  to  tell  a  rascal  by  his  mouth  ;  now  one  has  to  look  at 
his  eyes.  However,  it  don't  much  matter  in  your  case  ;  in 
more  difficult  ones  it  might  be  different." 

"  Have  you  called  me  up  here  to  insult  me  ? "  said 
Captain  Wheaton. 

"  Yes :  partly  that,  and  partly  to  hear  your  report  of 
your  rascally  eavesdropping  expedition." 

"  The  devil  is  on  you  strong  to-night ;  Lawrence  had 
better  sit  up  with  you  again.  Bedlam  ain't  such  a  nice 
place  as  Poyntz  Castle." 

"  Bedlam,  you  fool !  In  the  first  place,  I  am  not  in  the 
least  degree  mad ;  and  in  the  second  place,  I  have  had  an- 
other attack  of  angina  pectoris  this  morning,  so  you'll  soon 
be  in  Newgate.  You  won't  be  out  of  jail  six  weeks  after 
my  death,  and  I  can't  last  many  months.  Now  then,  re- 
port progress,  and  let  us  have  no  more  nonsense." 

"  I  went,"  said  Captain  Wheaton,  "  at  your  desire,  into 
the  pleasance  and  watched  Miss  Seckerton  and  Lady 
Poyntz,  and  I  was  lucky  enough  to  hear  some  of  their  con- 
versation." 

"  Sagacious  touter !  And  neither  of  them  horsewhipped 
you,  as  the  boy  Custance  did  at  Newmarket  ?  And  how 
did  the  fillies  gallop  ?  " 

Wheaton  never  looked  at  him,  but  went  on  :  '  I  heard 
their  conversation.  Miss  Seckerton  was  telling  her  what 
a  fool  she  had  been  to  pitch  Colonel  Hilton  overboard, 
loving  him  as  she  did,  in  a  fit  of  ill-temper,  for  such  a 
worthless,  effeminate,  shallow  knave  as  you." 

Such  a  silly  lie  !  But  he,  who  disbelieved  every  other 
word  the  man  said,  believed  this.  He  had  exasperated 
himself  against  Laura :  this  man  Wheaton  had  helped  in 
it  to  his  utmost,  hating  her  with  his  deepest  hatred  for  the 
utter  scorn  which  always  shone  on  him  out  of  her  eyes ; 
and  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  believed  him. 

"  I  really  must  play  the  deuce  with  this  young  lady — I 

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really  must.  I  am  very  sorry,  for  I  rather  like  her  when 
she  is  wicked.  Go  on." 

"  And  then  I  came  round  the  corner  on  them." 

"  What  an  infernal  hang-dog  scoundrel  you  must  have 
looked  !  What  did  they  say  ?  " 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  drive  a  knife  in  you,  you  brute  ?  " 
cried  Wheaton,  rising  in  a  catlike  rage.  "I'll  do  it  some 
day  if  you  go  on  torturing  me  and  insulting  me  like  this. 
Do  you  think  I  can't  feel?  " 

"  If  I  thought  you  couldn't  feel,  I  shouldn't  do  it." 

"  You  make  my  work  too  hard  for  me.  I  didn't  mean 
to  lose  my  temper.  You  are  ungenerous — you  are  un- 
gentlemanly  to  use  me  so.  And  it  is  such  bosh  !  You  can 
be  kind  enough  at  times.  Why  do  you  madden  me  against 
you  like  this  ?  You  know  you  ain't  half  such  a  devil  as 
you  want  to  make  out." 

"  Silence  !  You  interrupt  my  line  of  thought.  Well,  I 
won't  do  it  any  more ;  if  you  weren't  such  a  hound  I 
shouldn't  do  it  at  all.  About  this  young  lady  :  I'd  let  her 
be  Lady  Hatterleigh,  and  madden  her  life  away  when  she 
found  out  the  truth,  only  I  shouldn't  be  alive  and  shouldn't 
see  it.  Besides,  she's  a  shrew,  and  I  hate  her  ;  but  she  is 
too  good  for  that.  I  think  I  shall  merely  administer  a  se- 
vere castigation,  which  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing, 
and  teach  her  to  keep  her  tongue  between  her  teeth.  I 
shall  not  give  you  any  money  to-day  ;  I  will  not  be  threat- 
ened with  knives." 

"  That's  it !  Devil's  pay  !  You  never  gave  me  anything 
for  making  the  huntsman  drunk,  and  getting  him  to  tell  me 
that  he  saw  them  kissing  one  another  in  the  garden  ;  and 
now  you  are  going  to  ruin  her  on  my  information." 

"  There  is  scarcely  a  word  of  truth  in  what  you  say.  In 
the  first  place,  it  wasn't  in  the  garden — it  was  in  the  shrub- 
bery ;  in  the  second,  they  didn't  kiss  one  another,  but  fell 
together  by  the  ears,  and  blew  one  another  up  consumedly  ; 
and  in  the  third  place,  I  am  not  going  to  ruin  her  at  all, 
but  only  to  give  her  a  lesson  about  the  management  of  her 

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tongue.  Saving  her  from  Lord  Hatterleigh  cannot  be  ruin- 
ing her.  She  can  marry  Bob  ;  he  would  take  her  with  any 
reputation  for  the  sake  of  the  estate.  Lastly,  if  either  you 
or  the  huntsman  say  one  word — you  know  what  I  mean — 
I  will  pitch  you  overboard  (and  you  know  what  that 
means) ;  and  I  will  ruin  his  master,  and  take  uncommon 
good  care  that  that  rascal  Robert  shall  turn  him  off  the 
estate." 

"  About  Lady  Poyntz  and  Colonel  Hilton  ?  " 
"  Silence,  sir.     My  domestic   affairs  are  none  of  your 
business." 

"  Are  you  going  to  sell  up  Sir  Charles  Seckerton  ?  " 
"  That  is  a  matter  of  detail.  Go  and  ask  Lawrence  for 
my  cheque-book."  (He  brought  it.)  "  You  don't  deserve 
anything — you  and  your  knives.  How  much  do  you  want  ? 
Want,  I  say  ;  what  matter  is  it  how  much  water  one  pours 
into  a  sieve  ?  " 

Wheaton  mentioned  five-and-twenty  pounds. 
"  Then  you  will  want  the  dogcart  to  drive  to  Exeter,  and 
I  charge  you  five  pounds  for  that ;  that  makes  twenty.  A 
man  of  any  gumption  would  bring  back  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred. But  you  can't  play  billiards,  and  you  never  will. 
Why  do  you  go  on  trying  ?  None  of  you  catfaced  men 
ever  can  play.  I  would  give  you  points,  and  have  all  this 
money  back  to-night,  if  you  dared  to  play  me.  Here's  fifty 
pounds  for  you  ;  in  the  name  of  decency  take  a  fortnight 
in  losing  it ;  I  don't  want  you  before  that." 


Chapter  XXXIII 

"  You  have  got  your  hat  on  the  back  of  your  head  again, 
George,"  said  Laura,  one  afternoon.  "  I  wish  you  wouldn't ; 
I  am  always  telling  you  of  it." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  ?     It's  very  nice." 

"  If  looking  like  a  lunatic  is  nice,  that's  nice.     No  one 

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does  it  out  of  Bedlam ;  it  makes  you  look  as  mad  as  a 
hatter." 

" does  it  ?  "  He  mentioned  a  statesman,  at  the 

sound  of  whose  name  the  earth  quakes  to  its  centre. 

"  Then  he's  mad,"  said  Laura, "  and  ought  to  be  locked 
up." 

"  You  can  think  better  when  your  hat's  like  that,"  said 
Lord  Hatterleigh,  "  and  I  was  thinking." 

"  What  about  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  when  we  ought  to  be  married." 

"  That's  my  business.  I  have  thought  about  that,  and 
come  to  a  decision.  My  decision  is,  next  year." 

"  I  will  see  if  I  can  make  you  alter  it." 

"  There  is  not  the  least  use.  George,  I  want  time. 
George,  I  must  and  will  have  time.  Do  you  accept  my 
decision  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must." 

"  So  I  suppose.     Now  go  and  dress  for  dinner." 

"  It  is  very  early." 

"  Use  the  interval  in  abstraction  from  worldly  affairs 
and  contemplation.  No  great  work  of  art  is  accomplished 
without  that.  Put  the  whole  force  of  your  intellect  into 
the  subject  for  the  next  half-hour,  and  then,  when  your 
valet  comes  to  you,  you  will  have  grasped  the  subject 
yourself,  and  will  not  be  dependent  on  a  mere  expert.  Get 
to  feel  yourself  safe  without  your  expert.  Why,  if  any- 
thing was  to  happen  to  him,  you  wouldn't  be  able  to  dress 
yourself  and  would  have  to  put  the  thing  in  commission. 
Look  at  the  Admiralty,  will  you  ?  " 

And  with  these  whirling  words  she  left  him,  and  went  in, 
but  not  to  dress  just  yet.  She  went  upstairs  past  her  own 
room,  higher  yet,  to  the  room  which  old  Elspie  inhabited 
with  Lady  Emily's  maid,  and  she  found  her  alone. 

"  Elspie,  dear,  how  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  braw,  my  bonny  bird.  And  I'm  as  strong  as  maist 
of  these  southern  lasses  yet,  praise  be  to  God !  And  how 
is  my  Lord  ?  " 

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"  He  is  very  well — and  he  is  very  kind  and  very  good, 
Elspie,  which  is  better  still." 

"  Bless  him !  A  noble  heart !  I  wish  I  had  hat!  the 
nursing  of  him.  Your  feckless  queans  of  southern  nurses 
• — see  what  they've  done  with  him!  His  heid  gangs  ane 
gate,  and  his  legs  the  ither." 

"  He  is  mending,  Elspie ;  he  is  mending." 

"  I'd  mend  him  !  Why  does  his  Lordship  keep  the  Tul- 
libardie  Moor,  that  his  brother  Lord  Charles  should  kill  the 
grouse,  and  send  them  south  to  him  ?  Why  does  he  no 
go  north,  and  brush  the  bare  lean  legs  of  him  through  the 
heather  ?  When  he  came  south  again  he'd  be  for  kicking 
your  Colonel  Hilton  downstairs.  Laura  dear  ?  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  When  you  are  married,  take  his  Lordship  to  Scotland ; 
and  oh !  my  darling,  take  me  with  you.  It's  a  bonnie 
country,  this  England,  and  I  love  it ;  but  let  me  see  Scot- 
land again  before  I  dee.  I  am  an  auld  fule,  and  I'll  con- 
fess that  Fern  Tor  is  grander  than  Schehallion,  and  that 
Wysclith  is  bonnier  than  Tummle  ;  but  take  me  back  to 
Rannoch,  darling,  once  more,  before  I  dee.  I'm  a  hale 
old  woman,  I'll  no  dee  on  the  road.  If  I  dee  there — I 
will  dee  there,  Laura,  and  lie  with  him  on  Tummle  side, 
with  the  roar  of  the  Waxing  Burn  in  my  ear,  until  the 
dawn  which  knows  no  night  begins  to  wax  in  the  Cairn  of 
Schehallion " 

"  That's  all  about  long  ago,  and  about  long  to  come," 
said  Laura,  looking  out  of  the  window  across  the  sands. 
"  Elspie,  tell  me  this  :  how  long  does  it  take  to  live  down 
love  ?  " 

The  old  woman  had  risen,  and  had  been  getting  a  little 
excited,  as  the  images  of  the  crystal  mountain,  the  long- 
drawn  lake,  the  snarling  river,  the  whirling  snowdrift,  the 
crashing  thunderstorm — all  the  wild  incidents  of  that  won- 
drous fairyland,  Perthshire,  came  flashing  on  her  aged 
brain.  But  she  sat  down  now  suddenly,  and  watched  the 
back  of  Laura's  head  with  her  keen  grey  eye. 
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"  How  long  does  it  take  to  live  down  love  ?  "  she  re- 
peated slowly.  "  Weel,  that  just  depends  on  the  person 
ye  speir  of.  There  was  Luckie  Macdonald  of  Ball ;  Sandy 
Macpherson  of  Aberfeldy  died  in  the  snaedrift  aboon 
Rosemount,  coming  over  to  see  her,  and  she  married  Rab 
Grant,  one  of  Lord  Breadalbane's  keepers,  before  her  sec- 
ond sacrament.  (The  deil  mend  the  pair  of  'em  !)  Then 
there's  my  ain  case,  again.  I  have  been  forty  years  for- 
getting him,  and  have  not  done  it  yet ;  but  then  I  have  no 
tried,  ye  ken.  Of  whom  were  ye  speiring  ?  " 

"  Of  no  one  in  particular ;  of  such  a  person  as  myself, 
say." 

"  O,  yersell.  Oh,  forty-five  hundred  and  saxty-seven 
years ;  and  ye'll  no  do  it  at  that,  lassie.  Gang  down  and 
dress  for  dinner.  Mistress  Bridget  will  be  here  the  now 
for  her  tea.  I'm  loth  that  she  should  hear  you  talking 
your  nonsense.  Gang  down — gang  down  to  my  Lord." 


Chapter  XXXIV 

TIME  went  on,  until  the  months  had  nearly  made  up 
another  year  ;  but  nothing  happened  of  any  sort  worth  re- 
lating, and  only  two  things  progressed  which  are  worth 
mentioning  by  us. 

One  thing  which  progressed  was  Sir  Charles  Seeker- 
ton's  ruin.  There  was  no  doubt  now  that  he  was  in  the 
hands  of  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  for  the  interest  on  the  mort- 
gages was  openly  paid  to  his  man  of  business ;  yet  neither 
man  took  any  step.  Sir  Charles  lived  on  the  same  as  ever, 
and  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  never  made  the  slightest  allusion  to 
his  affairs.  That  some  contraction  in  the  household  ex- 
penses must  be  made,  and  that  the  hounds  must  go,  was 
pointed  out  continually  by  Sir  Charles'  man  of  business, 
but  entirely  without  effect. 

"  I  am  cheating  no  one  ;  they  will  all  be  paid  with  in- 

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terest.  I  want  to  keep  my  daughter  and  my  hounds  one 
year  more ;  when  she  goes  they  may  go.  Laissez-aller. 
I  have  lived  with  all  these  faces  round  me,  and  I  don't 
want  to  see  the  old  style  changed,  and  the  old  circle 
broken  up.  Either  in  my  time,  or  soon  after  it,  the  York- 
shire money  will  set  everything  straight." 

"  Not  at  this  rate,  Sir  Charles." 

"  Pish,  man  !  Lord  Hatterleigh  is  a  model  young  man, 
who  knows  every  sixpence  he  spends.  He  will  put  the 
whole  matter  right,  after  my  death." 

"  The  smash  may  come  any  day,  Sir  Charles." 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  make  the  smash  myself ;  I  am  not 
going  to  take  to  shambling  about  the  pump-rooms  at  Aix- 
la-Chapelle  till  I  am  forced." 

No  sense  could  be  got  into  his  head.  The  old  prestige 
had  become  too  dear  to  him.  A  grand  handsome  crash 
would  have  pleased  him  better  than  saving  himself  by  any 
retrenchment.  He  even  stopped  the  ordinary  cut  of  tim- 
ber that  year,  to  the  actual  detriment  of  his  woods.  And 
it  seems  curious  enough  that  he  confessed  afterwards,  to 
a  certain  acquaintance  of  mine  and  of  the  reader's,  that 
the  man  towards  whom  he  had  the  greatest  jealousy — the 
man  from  whom  he  most  jealously  and  proudly  concealed 
his  difficulties,  was  his  old  tried  friend  Sir  Peckwich 
Downes  —  a  man  who  would  have  lent  him  a  hundred 
thousand  pounds  on  moderate  interest,  and  put  him 
square. 

His  man  of  business,  in  despair,  made  a  schedule  of  his 
liabilities,  and  tried  to  get  him  to  look  at  it,  but  he  refused 
point-blank — 

"  I  know  in  a  general  way  that  the  estate  will  pull 
through,  if  we  get  time.  I'll  make  the  change  when  Laura 
is  married.  There  will  be  an  excuse  then.  I  shall  miss 
my  daughter,  and  so  on.  At  all  events,  I  will  go  on  for 
another  season ;  and  there  are  fifty  contingencies  in  my 
favour  —  Lord  Hatterleigh  —  the  Yorkshire  property  —  I 
know  not  what.  Let  be." 

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"  But  if  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  comes  down  ?  " 

"  Let  him.  Let  me  hear  no  more  about  it ;  only  keep 
the  whole  thing  quiet." 

That  was  all  his  distracted  man  of  business  could  get 
out  of  him.  In  some  unlucky  moment  that  most  inno- 
cent attorney  had  bought  and  hung  up  in  his  parlour  Ho- 
garth's print,  in  "  Marriage  a  la  Mode,"  of  the  morning 
after  the  rout,  in  which  the  old  steward  is  going  out  of 
the  room  with  only  one  bill  on  the  file,  and  all  the  rest  in 
his  hand.  It  became  so  offensive  to  him  now  that  he  had 
it  removed.  He  could  do  nothing  more,  except  wonder 
at  the  extraordinary  reticence  of  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  and 
the  equally  extraordinary  insolence  of  Sir  Charles  Seeker- 
ton  towards  Sir  Harry,  the  man  who  could  ruin  him  at 
any  moment. 

For  Sir  Charles  was  riding  the  high-horse  with  his 
neighbour  of  the  Castle.  The  relations  between  Lady 
Poyntz  and  Colonel  Hilton  were  not  pleasing  to  Sir 
Charles  Seckerton.  They  were  going  about  too  much 
together ;  Colonel  Hilton  had  got  his  leave  of  absence 
unreasonably  prolonged.  The  whole  state  of  affairs  be- 
tween those  two  was  of  a  sort  which  had  never  been  tol- 
erated in  this  extremely  moral  county  of  Devon  :  and  Sir 
Charles  found  it  incumbent  on  him  to  put  on  fawn-col- 
oured pantaloons,  a  buff  waistcoat,  a  blue  coat  and  brass 
buttons ;  and  mounting  his  most  solemn  cob — the  prop- 
erty of  a  late  bishop,  picked  up  for  a  song  (sixty  guineas) 
at  that  prelate's  death — and  followed  by  the  most  solemn 
and  handsomest  of  all  his  enormous  choice  of  grooms, 
mounted  on  a  vast  hack  (another  bargain),  he  rode  round 
to  the  Castle  to  give  Sir  Harry  a  piece  of  his  mind. 

The  solver  of  difficulties  says,  in  his  reckless  way,  that 
both  this  horse  and  this  groom  went  into  the  undertaking 
trade — the  one  as  a  hearse-horse,  and  the  other  as  a  mute. 
He  talks  too  fast  sometimes ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that 
Sir  Charles  on  the  Bishop's  cob,  followed  by  the  hearse- 
horse  and  mute,  looked  most  awfully  and  severely  respect- 

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able,  and  would  have  frightened  anyone  except  that  strange, 
fantastically  incomprehensible  creature  Sir  Harry  Poyntz, 
who,  as  he  viewed  the  enemy's  approach  from  the  window, 
broke  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  which  he  was 
unable  to  stop. 

"  You're  going  to  catch  it,"  he  said  to  his  wife.  "  I 
wouldn't  be  in  your  shoes  for  a  hundred  pounds.  Just 
look  at  the  solemn  pomposity  of  the  old  fool,  will  you, 
Maria  ?  What  have  you  been  up  to,  eh  ?  Hallo,  it's  me 
he  wants  !  I  hope  I  shall  keep  my  countenance." 

After  a  solemn  shake  of  the  hands,  Sir  Charles  went 
gravely  into  his  business,  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 
Sir  Harry  listened  patiently,  and  made  reply, — 

"  I  assure  you  I  think  you  labour  under  a  great  mistake. 
I  cannot  say  how  much  I  think  you  are  mistaken.  I  have 
honestly  the  fullest  confidence  in  Maria — dear  me,  the  ut- 
most confidence,  not  only  in  her,  but  still  more  in  Hilton." 

"  Well,  I  have  done  my  duty.  I  have  known  you  from 
a  boy,  and  have  taken  the  liberty  of  telling  you  what  the 
county  said." 

"  The  county  are  a  parcel  of  cackling  idiots — all  except, 
you  know — in  short,  with  the  exceptions  which  common 
politeness  requires.  If  they  knew  anything  about  present 
society,  they  would  know  that  every  woman  of  any  pre- 
tensions to  fashion  has  a  follower." 

"  It  is  a  shameless  custom  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  it.  You  at  all  events  should  not  complain 
of  it  in  this  case.  You  knew  all  about  me  from  a  boy,  and 
it  was  you  who  sold  the  girl  to  me,  and  it  is  you  who  are 
spending  the  money  now." 

The  poor  old  gentleman  rose  up  deadly  white,  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  to  his  heart,  gave  a  pitiable  groan.  Such  a 
bitter,  bitter  stab  ! — so  reckless,  so  needless,  so  horribly 
cruel,  and  yet  so  bitterly  true  !  He  turned  towards  the 
window,  and  leant  his  head  on  his  arm. 

Sir  Harry  Poyntz  rose  at  the  same  time.  He  cursed  him- 
self and  his  own  tongue  with  a  refined  sort  of  blasphemy 

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which  none  of  us  need  guess  at.  He  cried  out  to  Sir 
Charles  to  witness  that  he  was  a  fool,  a  lunatic,  who  didn't 
know  what  he  was  saying ;  and,  lastly,  besought  his  par- 
don on  his  knees. 

Sir  Charles  turned  on  him  at  last  and  said  :  "  Leave  me 
alone  a  few  minutes,  and  I  am  at  your  orders.  Let  the 
pain  of  the  wound  go  off  a  little  before  you  give  me  an- 
other." 

And  Sir  Harry  went  back  to  his  chair,  and  took  up  a 
book  of  pictures — no  other  a  book  than  our  "  Tom  and 
Jerry  ;  "  and  when  Sir  Charles  turned  on  him  after  a  con- 
siderable interval,  he  was  to  all  appearances  deeply  en- 
grossed in  it. 

He  knew  that  Sir  Charles  had  turned  towards  him,  and 
instantly  began  the  conversation — 

"  The  cleverest  thing  in  this  most  marvellous  book  is  the 
figure  of  the  beggar  scratching  himself.  Now,  did  your 
Hogarth  beat  this  man  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  be  serious,  Harry." 

"  I'll  be  perfectly  serious,  my  dear  Sir  Charles;  I  have 
much  more  to  be  serious  about  than  you  have." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  to  London  to  the  doctors — real  doctors, 
none  of  your  tin-pot,  twopenny-halfpenny,  secondhand 
leech  apothecaries,  but  Savile  Row,  you  know.  And  they 
say  I  am  dying  ;  I  have  angina  pectoris.  I  could  have  told 
them  that.  But  it  appears  that  my  brain  has  been  soften- 
ing for  years,  and  that  if  the  one  thing  don't  carry  me  off 
I  shall  die  a  drivelling  idiot.  It  appears  that  I  can  seldom 
have  been  sane  since  I  was  sixteen,  and  that  my  lucid  in- 
tervals will  get  rarer.  Do  you  forgive  those  wicked  words 
I  said  to  you  just  now  ?  " 

"  Most  heartily,  Harry ;  but  I  can  never  forget  them — 
they  were  so  terribly  true  !  " 

"  Fiddle-de-dee  ! — you'll  forget  them  fast  enough.  I'll 
send  you  out  of  this  room  six  inches  higher  than  you  were 
when  you  came  into  it.  Sit  down." 

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Sir  Charles  did  so,  wondering  what  was  to  come  next. 

"  You  feel  humiliated.  Of  course  you  do.  So  you 
ought,  if  you  have  any  of  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman  left. 
You  see  I  can  be  keen  enough  in  my  lucid  intervals.  You 
thought,  forsooth,  that  you  were  going  to  incur  pecuniary 
liabilities,  and  then  march  out  of  the  whole  business  at 
twelve-and-sixpence  in  the  pound,  with  your  nose  in  the 
air.  Now,  no  man  with  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman  ever 
did  that  yet,  and  you  have  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman.  I 
am  sorry  I  spoke  so  cruelly  to  you  just  now,  because  I  love 
you  very  much ;  but  it  is  an  uncommonly  good  lesson  for 
you.  You  lay  it  to  heart,  and  don't  get  yourself  up  in  the 
heavy-father  style  again,  and  come  here  to  lecture  me." 

"  I  take  my  rebuke,  Harry.  But  be  merciful ;  I  am  an 
old  man.  You  shall  have  your  bond  to-morrow;  I  will 
announce  my  ruin  to-morrow  morning.  But  don't  say 
any  more  cruel  things." 

"  Announce  your  ruin !  For  God's  sake,  Sir  Charles, 
don't  be  a  lunatic  !  I  have  got  this  pain  in  my  chest  com- 
ing on  again,  and  I  cannot  talk  much  more ;  this  attack 
may  kill  me.  Listen  to  what  I  say,  and  go  home  and 
think  about  it,  without  any  further  discussion.  Your 
daughter  Laura  irritated  me,  in  one  way  and  another,  be- 
yond what  my  temper  could  bear.  I  had  a  plan  for  ruin- 
ing you  and  disgracing  her.  But  I  have  given  it  up.  I 
am  a  bad  fellow  and  a  great  rascal,  as  you,  who  have 
known  me  from  a  boy,  well  know.  But  I  am  ridiculously 
superstitious,  and  I  want  to  die  without  leaving  anyone 
anything  to  forgive.  Come,  there  is  nothing  foolish  in 
that.  I  could  ruin  you  to-morrow,  but  I  won't.  While  I 
live  you  are  safe.  (Why  you  don't  retrench  I  don't  know — 
that  is  your  business.)  But  during  my  lifetime  you  will 
have  mercy,  afterwards  none.  What  do  you  know  of  my 
brother  Robert?  Come,  speak  out." 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  was  very  dissipated  and  wild, 
but  that  we  attributed  to " 

"  To  false  reports  spread  by  me  ?     Come,  speak  out, 

1 66 


Leighton  Court 

man;  you  don't  know  how  much  depends  on  it.  '  Is  it  not 
so  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Ask  anyone  who  knows  him — but  you  don't  know 
anyone,  though — if  I  am  not  right,  half  spendthrift,  half 
miser.  Even  I  had  to  send  him  off.  You  will  get  no 
mercy  from  him  ;  you'll  be  sold  up,  body  and  bones,  as 
soon  as  I  am  dead." 

"  You  are  not  dead  yet,  Harry." 

"  Ah  !  but  I  may  die  to-night.  Have  you  not  brains  to 
see  your  only  course  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  do." 

"  Break  off  this  match  with  Lord  Hatterleigh,"  said 
Sir  Harry,  looking  very  keenly  at  Sir  Charles.  "  I  was 
going  to  do  it  once  from  far  other  motives,  but  will  do  it 
still  if  you  hesitate.  Break  off  this  match,  and  marry  her 
to  my  brother.  He  will  come  home  from  India  in  a  most 
marriageable  frame  of  mind.  Those  two  queer  rumpty- 
tumpty  old  trots  of  yours,  Lady  Southmolton  and  Lady 
Emily,  would  have  him  to  book  in  a  week." 

Sir  Charles  passed  over  this  disrespectful  mention  of 
his  womankind,  but  rose  in  wrath  on  the  other  side  of  the 
question — 

"  Sell  my  daughter,  sir  ?     Never  ! " 

"  Hang  it,  old  fellow !  You  know,"  said  Sir  Harry, 
nursing  his  knee,  "  you  sold  Maria  to  me,  as  you  have 
confessed.  And  you  have  sold  your  own  daughter  to  a 
Guy  Fawkes  who  wears  his  boots  hind  -  side  before. 
Surely  you  can  do  it  again  ?  But  whether  or  no,  you 
think  of  it,  and  bring  your  mind  to  it.  It  seems  shocking 
now ;  but  it  is  wonderful  what  you  can  bring  your  mind 
to,  if  you  only  put  yourself  en  visage  with  it  soon  enough. 
Now  go  home,  and  don't  say  a  word  to  me,  or  I  shall  die 
before  it  will  be  convenient  to  you.  Only  remember  this : 
break  off  this  unnatural  match  between  your  daughter  and 
Lord  Hatterleigh,  or  else  I  shall  have  to  do  it  myself." 

Sir  Charles  rode  back  again.     The  groom  and  the  horse 

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Leighton  Court 

which  followed  him  were  as  portentously  solemn  as  ever ; 
but  Sir  Charles  sat  huddled  together  in  an  undignified 
manner,  and  rode  badly.  And  the  cob  stumbled  once  or 
twice — a  thing  we  must  attribute  to  the  uncertain  hand  of 
poor  Sir  Charles  ;  for  when  ridden  by  his  late  master,  the 
Bishop,  that  cob  had  never  been  known  to  stumble.  But, 
then,  his  Lordship  was  a  man  so  certain  of  his  conclu- 
sions, that  his  certainty  communicated  itself  to  his  horse  ; 
whereas  poor  Sir  Charles  was  in  a  perfect  sea  of  bewilder- 
ment. No  wonder  the  pony  stumbled  ! 


Chapter  XXXV 

THIS  last  conversation  must  have  taken  place  nearly  a 
year  after  the  eventful  midsummer  on  which  we  have  had 
to  dwell  so  long — not  long  before  the  time  when  fresh  and 
startling  changes  took  place  ;  which  changes  conclude 
that  period  in  the  lives  of  our  friends  which  seemed  to  me 
worth  speaking  of,  and  which  also  bring  my  story  to  an 
end.  It  is  now  my  duty  to  speak  somewhat  at  large  of 
Colonel  Hilton. 

"  What  business  he  had  here  at  all,"  said  Lady  Emily 
one  day,  "  was  a  thing  which  no  one  could  find  out." 
But,  whether  he  had  any  business  here  or  no — here  he 
was  ;  and  we  must  decidedly  agree  with  the  county  that 
he  had  much  better  have  been  anywhere  else. 

He  had  returned  invalided  from  the  Crimea,  but  had 
soon  got  well ;  and  had  found  himself  in  the  course  of 
duty  at  Plymouth,  doing  some  work  or  another,  nothing 
very  much  the  matter  with  him.  He  was  in  a  deservedly 
high  position,  and  was  able  to  take  things  very  comfortably. 
He  was  asked,  of  course,  to  Leighton  Court ;  and  at  once  it 
occurred  to  him  that  it  would  be  a  very  nice  thing  to  fall  in 
love  with  Laura,  which  he  immediately  did — in  a  sort  of 
way.  What  was  unfortunate  was,  that  Laura  did  not  fall  in 

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love  with  him  ;  and,  what  was  worse  still,  Maria  Huxtable 
did,  and,  not  being  so  well-formed  a  young  lady  as  our  poor 
Laura,  let  him  see  it.  Of  course  he  was  flattered  and  pleased 
by  this ;  though  to  himself  he  said  that  it  was  a  most  un- 
fortunate and  unhappy  business,  that  a  very  beautiful  girl 
with  sixty  thousand  pounds  should  have  shown  herself 
ready  to  be  asked  by  him,  as  it  was  impossible  that  he 
could  return  her  affection,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  He 
pitied  the  poor  girl  extremely,  and  was  very  kind  to  her 
indeed. 

Fall  in  love  with  her  he  could  not.  She  was  vulgar  be- 
side Laura,  he  said ;  and  she  had  a  dog-like  way  of  fol- 
lowing him  about  and  persecuting  him,  which  exasperated 
him  to  the  pitch  of  madness.  If  the  poor  silly  girl  had  on- 
ly waited  for  him  to  make  love  to  her,  instead  of  making 
play  at  him,  she  might  have  been  Mrs.  Hilton.  But  she 
wouldn't.  She  had  no  mother,  and  had  had  no  training. 
She  thought,  in  her  simplicity,  that  her  little  artifices  to 
get  near  him,  to  touch  him,  to  get  him  to  speak  kindly  to 
her,  were  utterly  unsuspected  ;  while  Hilton  was  driving 
back  in  his  dogcart  to  Plymouth,  and  saying,  "  Hang  it 
all,  that  girl  is  worse  than  any  girl  who  ever  made  a  dead 
set  at  a  man  in  India !  It  is  perfectly  sickening.  The 
women  in  England  are  losing  all  sense  of  modesty.  But 
I  like  her  better  than  the  other  one,  after  all." 

For  his  imperial  majesty,  after  having  bound  himself  to 
Laura's  chariot-wheels  for  a  few  weeks,  and  having  re- 
ceived nothing  but  impertinence  from  that  young  lady, 
had  begun  to  dislike  her  amazingly,  and  to  show  it.  He 
had  got  a  certain  sort  of  contempt  for  her.  She  sets  up 
for  strength  of  character,  but  she  lets  herself  be  led  by  the 
nose  by  a  priest.  She  is  positive,  and  will  never  confess 
herself  wrong ;  but  she  is  as  often  wrong  as  right ;  and 
she  has  such  a  deuce  of  a  tongue  !  Colonel  Hilton,  after 
all  his  knockings  about,  did  not  feel  at  all  inclined  to 
"  hang  up  his  hat,"  as  the  soldiers  say,  with  Laura.  Be- 
sides, he  did  not  want  to  marry  at  all,  if  it  came  to  that. 

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A  few  weeks  made  a  great  change  in  his  sentiments 
about  marriage.  Hitherto  he  had  been  getting  all  the 
kicks  and  none  of  the  halfpence  of  this  world.  And  now, 
just  when  he  could  look  about  him,  he  neither  felt  in- 
clined to  tie  himself  for  life  to  such  a  very  positive  and 
contradicting  person  as  Laura,  or  to  a  jealous  spaniel  of  a 
woman  like  Maria.  He  went  back  to  his  work,  leaving 
Maria,  who  had  created  a  fiction  that  Laura  had  stood  be- 
tween him  and  her,  in  a  state  of  jealousy  and  anger 
against  Laura. 

It  gave  him  a  pang,  however,  when  he  heard  that  Maria 
was  married  to  Sir  Harry  Poyntz.  Everyone  knew  every- 
thing about  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  except  those  most  concerned. 
Hilton,  who  knew  that  she  was  in  love  with  him,  was 
shocked  and  distressed  at  such  a  shameful  sacrifice ;  and 
while  at  Chalons,  hearing  that  the  Poyntzes  were  at  Paris, 

left  his  duty  to  see what  ?  Who  can  say  ?  Let  us 

put  it  thus — to  see  how  they  were  getting  on  together. 

Sir  Harry  had  received  him  with  a  most  cordial  wel- 
come. He  found  in  him  a  most  agreeable  companion,  not 
only  for  himself,  but  for  Lady  Poyntz.  He  could  not, 
would  not,  pay  much  attention  to  her — Hilton  was  able 
and  apparently  willing  to  do  so.  He  knew  she  had  been 
fond  of  him,  but  with  that  strange  unreasoning  reckless- 
ness which  was  part  of  his  disease,  he,  merely  because  he 
took  a  great  liking  to  the  man,  pressed  his  friendship  on 
him,  and  as  a  matter  of  course  thrust  his  society  on  his 
wife. 

The  mischief  must  have  begun  very  soon,  probably  in 
the  rush  and  roar  and  glitter  of  Chalons,  for  he  got  off 
going  to  America  on  the  score  of  his  health ;  and  those 
who  knew  and  loved  him  best  were  grieved  to  see  the 
Hero  of  Assewal  obviously  malingering,  and  getting  him- 
self talked  of  with  another  man's  wife. 

The  county,  as  we  know,  strongly  rebelled,  but  no  one 
dared  to  speak.  Some  said  that  Sir  Harry  connived  at  it 
• — others  said  he  was  a  besotted  idiot.  The  last  opinion 

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Leighton  Court 

was  more  nearly  true  than  the  former.  Sir  Harry's  head 
was  going.  He  began  to  find  that  he  had  not  brain  to  ex- 
ecute the  schemes  which  his  cunning  had  originated.  He 
had  early  confided  what  was  the  matter  to  Hilton,  and 
Hilton  had  often  acted  for  him.  But  something  happened 
once  which  gave  him  firmer  confidence  in  Hilton,  and 
which  gave  Colonel  Hilton  supreme  power  over  Sir  Harry. 

Poor  Sir  Harry  began  to  get  into  a  new  phase  of  his 
disease.  His  fits  of  irritability  became  more  acute,  and 
began  to  develope  into  violence.  His  wife  one  night  irri- 
tated him  extremely ;  she  had  no  tact  whatever,  and  he 
threw  something  at  her.  The  ridiculous  part  of  the  matter 
was  that  it  was  only  an  antimacassar ;  but  the  pathetic 
part  of  it  was  that  the  poor  fellow  had  cunning  enough  to 
see  that  he  had  by  that  act  overstepped  a  certain  boundary, 
and  that  he  could  never  step  back  again.  He  was  on  his 
knees  before  her  directly,  and  she,  not  having  wit  to  see, 
laughed  at  the  whole  matter,  and  threatened  to  box  his 
ears.  He  said  nothing  more  to  her ;  but  he  rode  over 
to  Plymouth,  and  told  the  whole  business  to  Colonel 
Hilton. 

"  If  it  had  been  the  poker,  you  know,  Hilton,  it  would 
have  been  just  the  same.  And  it  would  bein  the  high- 
est degree  ungentlemanly  if  I  laid  my  hand  on  that 
woman.  She  hasn't  behaved  badly,  and  she  brought  me, 
first  and  last,  sixty  thousand  pounds.  It's  an  awful  nui- 
sance, isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  marry,  Poyntz  ?  " 

"  Heaven  only  knows  !  Why  the  deuce  did  they  let  me  ? 
If  they  had  all  done  their  duty  they  could  have  stopped  it. 
My  character  was  bad  enough  to  have  justified  the  county 
in  burning  down  the  Castle." 

"  Poyntz,  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  you  ;  you  are  the 
most  confusing  fellow  I  ever  met." 

"  I  know  I  am  a  disturbing  cause  among  you  sane  peo- 
ple. You  generalise  from  an  accumulation  of  facts  which 
you  consider  as  sufficient,  and  then  /  come  cranking  in, 


Leighton  Court 

and  send  your  calculations  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven — 
make  you  all  in  your  bewilderment  a  hundred  times  mad- 
der than  myself.  For  instance,  you  are  all  mops  and 
brooms  now.  You  don't  know  what  to  do— /do.  I  want 
watching,  and  someone  ought  to  watch  me ;  someone  I 
respect  and  like  ought  to  have  his  eye  on  me.  If  it  was 
only  once  a  week  it  would  be  something." 

"  Go  home  and  fight  against  it,  man  ;  you  have  plenty 
of  resolution  and  plenty  of  brains,  though  they  are  most 
decidedly  addled,  God  help  you !  I  never  saw  anything 
like  you  in  all  my  born  days,"  cried  the  Colonel,  in  a  be- 
wilderment which  would  have  been  comical  under  any 
other  circumstances.  "  Go  home  and  keep  your  temper, 
man." 

"  But  will  you  speak  to  Maria,  and  persuade  her  not  to 
exasperate  me  to  the  pitch  of  murder  ?  " 

"  Well Yes,  I  will.     What  did  she  do  to  you  ?  " 

"  She  kept  on  agreeing  to  every  word  I  said.  I  tried  to 
make  her  contradict  me  for  an  hour  and  a  half,  but  she 
wouldn't.  She  sat  there  smiling,  and  agreeing  with  every 
word  I  said  till  I  thirsted  for  her  blood,  and  hurled  the 
antimacassar  at  her.  I  talked  of  everything  in  heaven  or 
earth.  I  turned  high  -  churchman  and  low -churchman, 
Whig,  Tory,  doctrinaire  Radical,  pothouse  Radical  — 
pitched  into  Popery,  pitched  into  Whalley ;  but  there  she 
sat  and  smiled,  and  agreed  to  every  word  I  said,  till  at  last 
I  did  what  can  never  be  undone — I  used  violence  towards 
her." 

"  You  haven't  hurt  her  much,  have  you  ?  "  said  Hilton, 
laughing. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  If  you  can't  see  the  importance  of 
what  I  have  told  you,  leave  us  alone  !  " 

So  Colonel  Hilton  thought  it  his  duty  to  see  more  of 
that  establishment,  as  being  the  only  person  who  had  any 
power  over  Sir  Harry.  He  made  very  light  of  this  anti- 
macassar business ;  Sir  Harry  was  so  fantastic  about  it. 
A  circumstance  which  happened  a  few  days  afterwards 

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Leighton  Court 

showed  him  that  the  poor  fellow  (we  may  call  him  so  now) 
was  right,  and  that  a  strong  head  was  needed  in  that 
house. 

Sir  Harry  Poyntz  had  lately  drunk  nothing  but  water  ; 
he  was  a  very  abstemious  man.  Therefore  one  evening, 
when  Colonel  Hilton  was  over  at  the  Castle,  he  felt  no 
anxiety  when  he  left  Captain  Wheaton  and  Sir  Harry  alone 
over  the  wine  (Captain  Wheaton  drinking  like  a  fish,  and 
Sir  Harry  eating  grapes  like  a  famished  hound),  and  went 
up  to  the  drawing-room  to  Lady  Poyntz. 

He  had  hardly  been  there  ten  minutes,  when  Wheaton 
came  in,  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  called  on  Colonel  Hilton 
to  defend  him. 

Hilton  thought  he  was  drunk.  "  I  thought  I  had — that 
you  were  forbidden  this  room,  sir  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake  come  and  help  us  !  Sir  Harry  is  going 
to  murder  me ;  he  has  gone  for  his  revolver ! " 

Hilton  went  at  once ;  from  a  noise  he  heard  he  directed 
his  feet  towards  Sir  Harry's  bedroom.  There  he  found 
three  or  four  servants  round  the  door,  begging  Sir  Harry 
to  be  calm ;  he,  in  a  furious  rage,  had  just  finished  loading 
his  revolver. 

"  Now,  clear  out  of  the  way ;  I'll  shoot  the  first  man  who 
stands  between  that  dog  and  me  ! " 

All  got  out  of  the  way  except  a  young  footman,  who 
cleverly  kept  his  eye  on  the  pistol,  intending  to  run  in  on 
his  master.  He  was  just  going  to  make  a  dart,  when  he 
was  thrust  gently  on  one  side ;  and  Colonel  Hilton,  walk- 
ing calmly  in,  took  the  pistol  away  from  Sir  Harry  as  if  he 
was  a  child. 

"  You  can  all  go.  Thomas,  you  have  behaved  uncom- 
monly well ;  Sir  Harry  will  reward  you.  Now,  Poyntz, 
how  did  this  come  about  ?  " 

"  He  was  drunk,  and  he  amused  himself  by  irritating 
and  insulting  me  the  moment  you  were  gone." 

"  Didn't  you  begin  nagging  at  him  ?  " 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind,  I  assure  you." 


Leighton  Court 

"  Well,  we  must  take  care  it  don't  happen  again.  You 
have  pretty  well  frightened  him  this  time." 

"  He  would  do  it  again  when  he  was  drunk ;  we  had 
better  kick  him  out." 

"  I  think  that  ought  to  have  been  done  a  long  while  ago ; 
but — I  beg  your  pardon,  Poyntz — are  you  quite  sure  you 
mean  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure  ?     Yes." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  the  fellow  don't  know  too  much — 
is  not  dangerous  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no ;  he  knows  nothing  more  than  you  do.  I 
certainly  did  keep  him  on,  partly  because  I  did  not  want 
it  known  that  I  was  odd  in  my  head  ;  but  the  main  reason 
was  that  I  liked  to  tease  and  insult  him,  and  see  how  much 
the  dog  would  stand.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  kick  him 
out  to-night !  You  are  not  afraid  yourself,  are  you  ?  "  said 
Sir  Harry. 

"  What  should  7  be  afraid  of  ?     What  is  the  dog  to  me  ?  " 

"  He  will  blacken  your  character  and,  I  fear,  Maria's  too. 
But  anything  is  better  than  murder  !  " 

"  I  will  give  the  rascal  a  hint  of  my  vengeance  if  he  dares. 
I  will  go  now  and  send  him  off." 

And  so  Captain  Wheaton  got  what  he  elegantly  called 
his  "  walking  ticket,"  and  disappeared.  Instantly  on  his 
disappearance,  rumour  got  tenfold  more  busy  with  Lady 
Poyntz's  name,  with  Hilton's  name,  and  with  Sir  Harry's 
name.  Lady  Poyntz  was  an  abandoned  woman,  and 
gambled ;  Hilton  was  lost  to  all  honour,  and  drank ;  Sir 
Harry  was  abandoned,  gambled,  drank,  and  was  a  danger- 
ous lunatic  all  at  the  same  time.  Of  course  these  reports 
were  set  about  by  our  friend  Wheaton,  but  most  people 
believed  them ;  and  not  long  after  Wheaton 's  departure, 
Sir  Charles  Seckerton  had  the  interview  we  know  of 
with  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  and  came  home  with  his  feathers 
ruffled. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Harry  clung  more  and  more  closely  to 
Hilton,  as  the  only  man  in  this  world  whom  he  could  trust. 

174 


Leighton  Court 

And  Hilton  hung  on  about  the  house,  and  saw  more  and 
more  of  Maria,  till  now  he  and  Lady  Poyntz  were  standing 
on  the  very  verge  of  ruin  unutterable. 


Chapter  XXXVI 

"  DTD  you  see  Lady  Poyntz  this  morning,  Laura  ?  "  asked 
Lord  Hatterleigh,  as  he  and  Laura  met  on  the  stairs,  going 
down  to  dinner,  and  dawdled  together  for  a  chat. 

"  Yes ;  I  saw  her  and  walked  with  her,  but  there  was  no 
result.  She  held  me  completely  at  bay,  and  talked  and 
rattled  on  just  as  she  has  done  since  I  went  back  to  her  to 
try  to  gain  her  confidence.  She  is  perfectly  friendly,  but 
will  talk  nothing  but  commonplace.  I  must  give  the  busi- 
ness up,  George." 

"  Don't  do  that ;  persevere,  my  love.  Think  for  a  mo- 
ment what  is  involved  in  giving  her  up." 

"  You  are  right.  I  will  persevere  on  the  mere  chance  of 
some  accident  giving  me  my  old  hold  on  her.  George, 
there  was  a  time  when  that  woman  hung  on  every  word  I 
said — when  I  could  have  made  her  jump  off  the  keep  or 
turn  Roman  Catholic." 

"  How  did  you  lose  it  ?  " 

"  You  are  rather  provoking ;  but  I  will  stick  to  our 
bargain,  and  tell  the  truth.  Through  my  own  conceit 
and  folly,  not  to  mention  my  tongue ;  I  bullied  her  too 
much." 

"  And  she  thought  you  stood  between  her  and  Colonel 
Hilton  at  the  time  you  encouraged  him  to  pay  you  so 
much  attention  ?  " 

"  If  snapping  his  nose  off  every  time  he  opened  his 
mouth  meant  encouragement,  you  are  quite  right." 

"  I  know,"  said  Lord  Hatterleigh,  giving  one  of  his  own 
"  Alcedo  gigantea "  guffaws.  "  I  used  to  watch  you. 
What  on  earth  made  you  hate  the  man  so  ?  " 

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"  The  same  thing  which  makes  me  dislike  you  so  much 
— he  is  a  gaby !  " 

"  I  don't  think  he  is  a  gaby  at  all — at  all  events,  not 
such  a  gaby  as  I  was." 

"  I  never  examined  into  the  degrees  of  gabyism." 

"  Bless  thy  sweet  tongue,  Kate  !  And  you  wonder  you 
lost  your  power  over  Maria  Poyntz  ?  " 

"  Bless  thy  sweet  temper,  George !  Did  anyone  ever 
make  you  cross  ?  I  have  tried  hard  enough." 

"  No,  I  never  was  cross.  My  mother  remarks  it  in  pub- 
lic often — a  great  deal  too  often.  She  damages  my  repu- 
tation, and  makes  people  take  liberties  with  me,  by  always 
representing  me  a  lamb.  It  would  do  me  infinite  good  in 
the  world  if  people  could  be  got  to  believe  that  I  was  a 
terrible  tiger  at  bottom  ;  but  they  won't.  By-the-bye,  do 
you  remember  that  you  told  me  once  that  the  reason  you 
hated  Colonel  Hilton  was  that  he  agreed  with  every  word 
you  said  ?  Now  that  is  singular,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Come  to  your  dinner,  will  you,  and  don't  stay  exas- 
perating me  on  the  stairs.  The  cases  are  utterly  different. 
You  contradict  me,  and  argue  with  me  in  perfect  good- 
humour;  he  flattered  one  until  fie  made  one  contradict 
him,  and  only  opposed  one  when  he  was  thoroughly  an- 
gry. Now  that  is  quite  enough  to  carry  you  on  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening  ;  I  cannot  be  always  flattering  you." 

"  Very  well ;  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

"  They  are  coming  to-night,"  said  Laura. 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  The  Poyntzes  and  Colonel  Hilton.  That  is  the  last 
civil  thing  I  shall  say  to-night.  As  an  illustration,  you 
knew  who  I  meant  well  enough,  only  for  the  chance  of 
another  spar  you  pretended  you  didn't." 

They  both  burst  out  laughing.  There  was  something- 
very  pretty  in  the  friendship  between  these  two.  They 
sparred  at  times,  but  Laura  always  lost.  She  sometimes 
lost  her  temper,  for  instance,  which  that  sweet-natured 
gorilla  of  a  nobleman  never  did.  They  did  one  another  a 

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deal  of  good.  She  civilised  him  to  an  extent  which  his  own 
mother  had  never  conceived  possible  ;  and  he,  by  his  per- 
sistent good-humour,  broke  her  of  her  petulance,  and  cured 
her  of  her  unfortunate  habit  of  speaking  her  mind.  When 
on  this  occasion  they  had  both  done  laughing,  she  ans- 
wered him — 

"  The  Poyntzes  and  the  other  gaby — you  know  whom 
I  mean  by  the  first  one — are  coming.  Now." 

"  Pax,  be  serious !  I  am  in  earnest,  Laura.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  ;  I  want  to  consult  you.  There,  now  let  us 
be  wise." 

They  were  at  once  as  wise  as  Solomon. 

"  I  wish  he  was  gone  from  here,"  said  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh. 

"  We  all  wish  that." 

"  If  he  has  a  spark  of  honour  or  manliness  left  in  him — 
and  the  man  is  a  noble  soldier,  Laura — he  will  go  after 
hearing  to-day's  news." 

"  What  news  ?  " 

"  News  !  "  cried  Lord  Hatterleigh,  and  looking  sternly 
at  her.  "  Heavens  !  have  you  heard  nothing  ? — that  India 
is  lost ;  that  the  Sepoys  have  risen,  and  are  driving  the 
British  before  them  like  sheep ;  that  the  European  men 
and  women  are  being  shot  down  like  dogs,  and  treated 
worse  ;  that  the  whole  remnant  of  British  rule  in  India  con- 
sists in  a  few  hopeless  garrisons,  shut  in,  with  their  women 
and  children,  in  the  principal  towns,  holding  out,  through 
thirst  and  hunger,  lest  a  fate  worse  than  death  befall 
them  ?  India  is  lost — gone — hopelessly  gone  !  " 

"  That  is  very  dreadful,  Hatterleigh  !  Are  we  really  to 
lose  India  ?  But  we  shall  get  on  pretty  well  without  it, 
sha'n't  we  ?  " 

"  Heaven  Help  her !  "  said  Lord  Hatterleigh,  addressing 
a  case  full  of  stuffed  birds,  which  stood  in  the  hall  close 
before  him.  "  My  mother  was  right ;  I  can't  lose  my 
temper.  Laura  dear,  you  can  understand  this.  We  have 
suffered  a  fearful  disaster  in  India  —  more  fearful,  more 

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terrible,  than  you  can  understand  !  I  will  teach  you  to  un- 
derstand it,  dear,  and  you  shall  be  as  angry  and  as  fierce 
as  I  am.  But  this  terrible  disaster  strikes  home  here  in 
two  ways." 

"  As  how  ?     I  cannot  understand." 

"  Colonel  Hilton's  brother  is  there  in  the  thick  of  it. 
Surely  the  danger  of  his  only  brother,  his  favourite,  will 
be  sufficient  to  rouse  him  from  this  unmanly  sloth  ?  Surely 
he  will  exchange  into  some  regiment  ordered  for  service, 
and  quit  this  place  for  ever  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  an  excellent  solution ;  let  us  hope  so." 

"  Then  there  is  Poyntz's  brother  Robert.  He  is  in  the 
thick  of  it  too.  Now  would  be  the  time  for  someone  to 
say  a  kind  word  for  him  to  his  brother,  and  to  reconcile 
them." 

"  Is  their  quarrel  very  bitter?  " 

"  Very  so.  He  was  very  wild.  There,  your  mother  has 
rung  for  dinner  ;  we  shall  catch  it." 

"  Not  we,"  said  Laura,  laughing ;  "  my  mother  never 
scolds  you." 


Chapter  XXXVII 

DURING  dinner,  and  after  dinner,  they  talked  of  only  one 
thing — the  Indian  Mutiny ;  and  more  particularly  that  part 
of  it  which  was  illustrated  by  a  wonderful  letter  just  re- 
ceived by  Sir  Peckwich  Downes  from  his  son  George,  who 
was  in  the  heart  of  the  whole  matter. 

The  party  was  complete,  with  the  exception  of  Colonel 
Hilton,  who  could  not  come.  Sir  Peckwich  looked  seven 
sizes  larger  than  usual,  and  tried  to  be  as  pompous  as  ever, 
but  failed.  A  radiant  genial  smile  overspread  his  features 
continually ;  and  more  than  once,  like  our  dear  Sir  Hugh, 
he  manifested  a  mighty  disposition  to  cry.  All  the  best 
part  of  the  man  (and  he  was  a  noble  man  enough)  was  corn- 
ing out  of  him  as  he  talked  of  his  son's  heroism,  and  his 

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son's  friend's  heroism.  And  Lord  Hatterleigh  and  Laura 
noticed,  as  a  curious  thing,  that  he  addressed  himself  almost 
entirely  to  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  to  whom  he  had  hardly 
deigned  to  speak  before.  He  appealed  to  him,  and  he  flat- 
tered him  :  when  he  told  the  most  exciting  part  of  the  noble 
story,  as  he  did  by  request  half-a-dozen  times  over,  he  ad- 
dressed himself  almost  entirely  to  Sir  Harry  Poyntz.  Once, 
when  his  utterance  was  stopped,  and  his  great  chest  began 
heaving,  he  sat  calmly  looking  at  Sir  Harry,  until  he  had 
succeeded  in  smothering  the  sobs  which  were  trying  to  rise. 
And  Sir  Harry,  with  his  shallow  pale-blue  eye,  sat  watch- 
ing and  listening  to  him  with  his  head  on  one  side,  like  a 
parrot.  No  one  but  Hilton  could  have  read  that  intense 
look  :  it  meant,  "  My  brain  is  getting  dull ;  but  I  think  I 
know  what  you  are  after,  old  gentleman  !  "  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh couldn't  make  it  out  at  all. 

The  gist  of  the  story  was  this  :  The  garrison  of  Gorum- 
pore,  reduced  to  about  sixty  European  soldiers,  one  hun- 
dred Sikhs,  and  the  civilian  volunteers,  had,  finding  their 
position  untenable,  made  a  glorious  retreat,  with  the  women 
and  children,  back  in  safety  to  a  nucleus  of  the  army, 
which  was  now  sufficiently  large  to  retreat  the  next  day 
into  communication  with  the  base  of  operations  at  Calcutta 
— and  this  through  masses  of  swarming  Sepoys.  You  can 
read  a  hundred  such  stories.  Their  rear  had  been  sorely 
pressed  by  rebel  cavalry.  The  handful  of  mounted  Euro- 
peans and  Sikhs  had  charged  back,  against  overwhelmingly 
superior  numbers,  time  after  time  through  the  burning  day. 
At  last,  at  evening,  when  the  main  body  were  just  getting 
into  safety,  within  hearing  of  British  bugles,  George 
Downes,  in  command  of  the  party,  had  ordered  one  last 
charge.  But  the  rebels,  getting  more  reckless  as  they  saw 
their  prey  escaping,  were  too  strong  for  them — the  British 
got  the  worst  of  it.  Several  of  the  Sikhs  went  to  Paradise 
with  closed  teeth,  laying  about  them  like  glorious  fellows 
as  they  are  ;  but  the  rest  cut  their  way  through  the  rebels, 
and,  led  by  a  certain  Cornet,  were  in  a  fair  way  to  get 

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home  ;  when  this  Cornet,  now  their  leader,  looking  round, 
missed  Downes,  and,  crying  out  to  the  rest  of  his  handful 
of  Sikhs  and  Europeans,  turned  bridle  and  rode  back  again 
as  hard  as  he  could  go. 

The  main  body  of  the  rebels  had  found  themselves  too 
near  the  British  bugles,  and  had  retreated.  But  in  the 
centre  of  the  plain  there  were  left  somewhere  near  fifty  of 
them,  riding  round  and  round  one  another  in  a  circle — the 
inner  ones  of  them  cutting  and  slashing  at  something  with 
their  sabres.  The  Cornet,  sailing  straight  away  into  this 
embroglio,  never  looking  as  to  who  were  following,  and 
making  himself  felt  right  and  left,  discovered  that  the 
something  they  were  cutting  at  was  George  Downes,  stand- 
ing, dismounted,  over  the  body  of  a  wounded  British  troop- 
er, fighting  the  whole  fifty  of  them  single-handed.* 

The  Cornet  dashed  at  the  whole  of  them  alone ;  and 
whether  it  was  that  he  laid  about  him  so  stoutly,  or  whether 
the  mere  appearance  of  "  an  angry  sahib  " — which,  as  Mr. 
Trevelyan  tells  us,  is  sufficient  to  produce  any  amount  of 
panic  among  Indians — caused  it,  we  cannot  say :  at  all 
events  there  was  a  general  "  skedaddle,"  which  is  one  fact ; 
and  another  is,  that  we  agree  with  Mr.  Trevelyan  that  an 
angry  Englishman  is  a  very  terrible  business  indeed. 

However,  the  Cornet  and  the  Cornet's  tail  got  Captain 
Downes  out  of  his  terrible  situation  in  triumph,  and  that 
was  the  story. 

"  And  what  I  say  is,"  thundered  Sir  Peckwich  Downes, 
"  that  nobly  as  that  most  noble  boy  of  mine  has  behaved, 
the  Cornet  has  behaved  more  nobly  still.  Just  think  of  it, 

*  I  have  not  drawn  on  my  imagination  here.  I  met  a  quiet  man 
at  a  country  dinner-party,  not  many  years  ago,  on  whose  dresscoat 
I  detected  the  Victoria  Cross.  In  the  half-hour  before  dinner  I 
got  introduced  to  him,  for  the  purpose  of  having  a  look  at  his 
shabby  bit  of  gun-metal,  a  decoration  which  I  had  never  seen 
closely  before.  A  few  years  afterwards  I  saw  his  sword-arm,  and 
then  I  began  to  understand  what  war  meant.  He  had  eight-and- 
twenty  sabre-cuts  in  various  parts  of  his  body. 

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by  Jove  ! — coming  back  after  poor  George — all  alone,  sin- 
gle-handed, by  Jove  !  And  you  talk  to  me  of  your  ancient 
Romans,"  he  continued,  turning  with  sudden  asperity  on 
Sir  Charles,  as  if  that  innocent  and  perfectly  silent  gentle- 
man had  just  finished  a  string  of  highly  offensive  classical 
allusions — "  your  Quintus  Curtius,  your  Leonidas,  your 
rubbish !  What  were  they  to  this  glorious  self-devoted 
Cornet — eh,  sir  ?  Go  along  with  you,  sir  ;  don't  talk  that 
nonsense  to  me  !  " 

"  A  glorious  fellow  truly,"  said  Sir  Charles ;  "  a  noble 
fellow — a  hero  among  heroes  !  " 

"  We  have  not  had  his  name  yet,"  said  Laura.  "  Let 
us  have  this  noble  man's  name." 

"  Ask  Sir  Harry  Poyntz,"  said  Sir  Peckwich,  with  a  toss 
of  the  head  and  a  puff. 

Laura  did  so,  with  her  eyes  flashing,  and  her  whole  face 
animated  by  the  glorious  story.  Sir  Harry  looked  at  her 
steadily,  and  thought,  "  I  shall  have  to  play  the  mischief 
with  you  to-morrow,  my  dear  young  lady  —  I  shall  in- 
deed ;  "  and  then  said  slowly,  aloud — "  I  do  not  know  his 
name.  I  know  nothing  of  the  story  but  what  I  have  heard 
here.  But  I  begin  to  make  a  guess,  from  Sir  Peckwich 
Downes'  exceedingly  personal  gaze,  that  this  hero  is  no 
other  than  that  lunatic  young  rascal,  my  brother  Bob  :  it's 
exactly  like  a  piece  of  his  tomfoolery." 

"  Right,  by  Jingo ! "  said  Sir  Peckwich,  bringing  his  fist 
on  the  table  with  a  crash :  a  piece  of  vulgarity  which, 
coupled  with  the  lowness  of  the  remark  which  accompa- 
nied it,  would  at  an  ordinary  time  have  raised  extreme  anger 
in  the  aristocratic  soul  of  Lady  Downes ;  but  she  now 
only  sat,  flushed  and  proud,  looking  so  really  noble  that 
Laura  remarked  it,  and  pointed  it  out  to  Lord  Hatterleigh. 

"  Wonderful !  "  he  whispered  ;  "  and  such  a  very  com- 
monplace-looking person  on  ordinary  occasions !  " 

"  We  have  all  got  a  little  extra  fire  in  our  eyes  to-night 
— not  one  of  us  but  looks  nobler,"  said  Laura ;  "  but  the 
proud  mother  beats  us  all.  I  wonder  whether  that  strange 
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creature  Sir  Harry  will  notice  his  brother  now :  he  is  going 
to  speak." 

"  It  was  not  a  difficult  guess  of  mine,  Sir  Peckwich.  I 
know  now  that  he  must  have  changed  into  that  Clanjam 
fry  because  your  son  was  there.  They  were  boy-lovers  at 
Eton,  you  remember." 

"  I  congratulate  myself  on  the  result,"  said  Sir  Peckwich. 

"  I  say,"  said  Sir  Harry,  with  some  show  of  interest, 
"  what  does  one  do  in  these  cases  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Sir  Peckwich,  puzzled. 

"In  these  cases,  when  a  man's  brother  or  son  distin- 
guishes himself  like  this  :  do  you  send  them  a  present,  or 
merely  write  them  a  complimentary  letter?  What  are 
you  going  to  do  in  George's  case,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  I  shall  write  to  him,  sir,  a  letter  he'll  remember  to  the 
day  of  his  death.  And  I  shall  pay  a  thousand  pounds 
into  Cox  and  Greenwood's,  for  him  to  spend  in  the  way  he 
likes  best.  That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do,  sir." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  You  are  going  to  do  that.  Should  you 
say  that  in  my  case  half  would  be  enough  ?  " 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Poyntz,"  said  Sir  Peckwich ;  and 
the  other  did  so,  laughing. 

"  Much  obliged  to  you  for  giving  me  a  precedent.  Bob 
has  never  done  so  in  his  own  person.  He  has  never  be- 
haved in  any  way  approaching  to  common  decency  till 
now.  Here's  my  difficulty  about  the  letter :  all  the  letters 
I  have  ever  written  to  him  have  been  of  a  violently  ex- 
asperating and  abusive  nature,  and  now  to  begin  gush- 
ing   .  However,  it  must  be  done." 

By-and-by  a  servant  came  in  and  announced  "  Sir  Harry 
Poyntz's  boat." 

"  It  is  very  early,"  said  he. 

"  I  think  you  are  wanted  at  home,  Sir  Harry  :  some- 
thing about  Colonel  Hilton." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Is  he  dead  ?  "  said  Lady  Poyntz,  in  a  voice  which 
made  them  all  start. 

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"  No,  my  lady,  I  believe  not — nothing  at  all  the  matter 
with  him." 

But  she  passed  out,  very  pale ;  and  Laura  went  with  her 
to  wrap  her  up,  for  the  night  was  chill.  Her  husband 
stayed  behind,  and  paused  while  wishing  Lord  Hatterleigh 
good-night.  He  was  a  little  more  fantastic  than  usual — 

"  Good-night !     I  hope  you  will  sleep  well  to-night." 

"  Thank  you — I  generally  do,  Poyntz — thank  you,"  said 
Lord  Hatterleigh. 

"  And  I  hope  you  will  sleep  well  to-morrow  night  also. 
Inside  all  right  now  ?  " 

"  Quite  right,  thank  you,"  said  the  other,  laughing. 

"  Hah  !  don't  let  it  go  wrong  again,  if  anything  happens 
to  you.  Put  a  bold  face  on  it,  you  know.  Good-night ! " 

"  Put  a  bold  face  on  what  ?  "  asked  Lord  Hatterleigh. 

"  On  anything  that  may  happen,"  said  Sir  Harry. 
"  Don't  think  so  much  of  your  inside.  Bless  you,  there  is 
no  greater  mistake  in  life  than  beginning  to  study  your  in- 
side !  If  I  had  done  so  I  should  have  been  in  Bedlam  ten 
years  ago.  Short  of  turning  Papist,  I  know  of  no  super- 
stition so  mischievous  as  that  of  believing  one's  inside  to 
be  in  an  exceptional  and  abnormal  state.  That  is  the 
great  temptation  of  your  life ;  don't  you  yield  to  it  after 
you  get  my  letter  to-morrow." 

At  the  door  Sir  Harry  came  across  his  wife,  Laura,  and 
Sir  Charles  Seckerton.  He  bid  Laura  "  good-night,"  and 
paused  with  her  as  he  had  with  Lord  Hatterleigh. 

"  That  was  a  fine  story  about  George  Downes,"  he  said. 

"  A  noble  story !     And  your  brother  too  ! " 

"  And  my  brother  Bob,  eh  ?  A  fine  fellow — a  fine  fel- 
low !  I  will  send  him  five  hundred  pounds,  and  I'll  bet 
another  hundred  that  he  makes  that  five  hundred  go  fur- 
ther than  scatter-brained  George  Downes  does  his  thou- 
sand. A  fine  fellow,  Bob,  after  all,  Sir  Charles ;  only  one 
fault,  he  is  such  a  miserly  screw  !  " 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  that  about  such  a  hero,"  said 
Laura. 

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"You'll  have  to  believe  it,  Miss  Seckerton.  And  now, 
as  we  shall  never  meet  again  in  this  world,  let  me  say 
good-by  once  more.  Reserve  your  judgment  of  me ;  all 
I  ask  of  you  is  to  reserve  your  judgment  of  me." 

And  before  puzzled  Laura  had  replied,  he  was  down  the 
pleasance-walk  after  his  wife ;  and  soon  they  heard  the 
throb  of  the  rowlocks,  as  the  boat  carried  them  across  the 
tideway  towards  the  dark  Castle  which  threatened  in  the 
westward  before  the  sinking  moon,  "  Seen  him  for  the 
last  time !  Reserve  her  judgment  on  him !  The  man 
was  mad ! " 


Chapter  XXXVIII 

IT  was  a  cold  night,  and  a  cold  and  wailing  wind  came 
down  the  river  from  the  moor;  but  it  was  hardly  cold 
enough  to  account  for  Lady  Poyntz  trembling  and  shiver- 
ing as  she  did. 

"  How  you  shake,  old  woman  !  "  said  Sir  Harry;  "  you 
have  caught  a  cold.  Take  my  coat." 

"  I  am  warm  enough,  Harry ;  at  least  I  shall  get  warm 
walking  up  to  the  Castle.  I  hate  dining  at  the  Court !  I 
shall  catch  my  death  crossing  this  river  some  night. 
However,  here  we  are." 

She  sprang  on  shore  ;  and  the  moment  they  were  alone 
together,  she  said, — 

"  Hilton  has  got  some  ill-news,  or  he  is  going  to  India. 
Go  and  speak  to  him." 

"  India !  For  God's  sake  don't  let  him  go  away  from 
me  !  I  shall  be  ruined.  I  can't  do  without  him  now.  I 
tell  you  fairly,  I  have  no  one  who  will  act  for  me  but  him." 

"  Go  to  him,  Harry;  see  if  anything  is  wrong." 

"  I  wish  you  would  go,"  said  Sir  Harry.  "  I  hate  a 
scene.  Besides,  you  have  ten  times  the  influence  with  him 
that  I  have.  Do  go,  to  oblige  me." 

"  Let  it  be  so  then,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

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Leighton  Court 

"  Thank  you  !  I  will  go  to  my  room." 

Colonel  Hilton,  the  servant  said,  was  in  the  library. 
She  passed  quickly  to  the  door,  and  paused  when  she  had 
her  hand  on  the  handle. 

She  felt  sick  and  faint ;  she  was  terrified  beyond  meas- 
ure. The  poor  woman  knew  that,  although  as  yet  inno- 
cent, she  was  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  and  that  any 
movement  might  be  her  ruin.  What  was  Hilton  doing ; 
why  had  he  sent  for  them  home  ?  She  knew,  poor  creat- 
ure, that  she  was  in  his  power ;  that  he  had  got  perfect 
control  over  her ;  and  that  if  he  was  scoundrel  enough  to 
say  the  word  this  night,  she  would  follow  him  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth !  She  wished  she  was  dead ;  she  wished  that 
she  had  never  been  born.  At  last  she  said  to  herself, 
"  Oh,  if  he  will  only  have  mercy  ! " 

She  let  the  handle  go.  A  thought  came  into  her  head 
so  maddening,  so  terrifying,  that  she  nearly  screamed 
aloud.  Her  father !  For  one  moment  in  the  darkness 
she  saw  the  dear  old  face,  as  it  would  be  when  he  got  the 
news  ;  incredulity,  horror,  and  a  wild  grief  which  was  be- 
yond wailing,  were  torturing  each  sacred  line.  The  ghast- 
ly vision  was  gone  again  in  an  instant ;  and  she  stood 
gasping  for  breath  before  the  door,  knowing  that  she  must 
enter  to  her  fate. 

She  was  terrified  suddenly  by  a  sound  in  the  room,  at 
the  door  of  which  she  stood  trembling :  a  word — a  word  in 
Hilton's  voice — a  loud,  furious,  terrible  oath  !  She  went 
in  now,  and  as  she  looked  at  him,  she  thought  her  doom 
was  sealed. 

He  was  perfectly  white,  and  his  hair  was  disordered, 
and  hung  over  his  forehead.  On  his  face  there  was  a 
scowl  so  fearful,  so  utterly  unlike  anything  she  had  seen 
there  before,  that  her  terror  was  almost  lost  in  amazement. 
He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  face 
towards  her  as  she  came  in,  and  so  she  took  it  all  in  at  a 
glance. 

"  Is  that  you,  Lady  Poyntz  ?  "  he  croaked  out, 

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Leighton  Court 

"  Yes,  it  is  I ;  you  sent  for  us." 

"  To  hear  the  news,  the  gallant  news,  my  Lady  Poyntz. 
Have  you  heard  the  news  of  my  brother  Jack,  of  my  bonny 
little  Jack,  the  lad  I  swore  to  protect,  to  my  mother  on  her 
deathbed  ?  Only  he  and  I  left  in  the  world  together ! " 

"  Has  anything  happened  to  him  ?  " 

"  Murdered  !  "  he  shouted,  in  a  voice  which  rang  through 
the  silent  house,  and  startled  the  distant  servants.  "  Mur- 
dered, foully  and  cruelly,  by  his  own  men,  while  I,  like  a 
thrice-cursed  fool,  was  mincing  here  !  That  is  brave  news 
for  you,  my  Lady  Poyntz  !  " 

She  could  only  weep — she  had  nothing  to  say. 

"But,  Maria,  I  will  have  vengeance  for  this  —  sweet, 
noble  vengeance !  I  am  off  to-night ;  I  only  stayed  to 
say  good-bye,  and  before  you  see  me  again,  I  shall  have 
waded  knee-deep  in  blood.  Our  fellows  are  at  the  glori- 
ous work  now,  and  I  am  away  to  join  them.  And  now 
good-bye  once  more,  Maria ;  say  good-bye  to  your  hus- 
band for  me.  I  have  been  here  too  long  already."  And 
so,  without  another  word,  he  was  gone. 

A  sad  frame  of  mind  for  such  a  genial  noble  creature  to 
find  himself  in.  It  is  easy  enough  to  be  philosophical  over 
this  state  of  feeling,  and  to  be  shocked  at  it  at  this  dis- 
tance of  time.  We,  however,  have  nothing  to  do  either 
with  excusing  it  or  condemning  it ;  all  we  need  say  about 
it  is  that  it  existed  to  an  immense  extent,  and  that  its  ex- 
istence in  the  breast  of  Colonel  Hilton  probably  saved  him 
and  Lady  Poyntz  from  hopeless  ruin. 

She  was  saved,  and  she  knew  it.  Half  an  hour  after 
Hilton  was  gone,  her  husband,  prowling  round  the  house 
with  catlike  tread,  came  to  the  library-door  and  looked  in. 
Lady  Poyntz  was  kneeling  at  the  table,  with  the  light  in 
her  face,  and  her  hands  held  before  her  as  though  she 
prayed ;  while  her  lips,  though  moving  rapidly,  did  not 
disturb  the  beautiful  smile  which  was  settled  on  her  mouth. 
She  had  not  been  weeping,  for  her  magnificent  lustrous 
eyes  were  as  clear  and  more  brilliant  than  ever  ;  but  what 

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Leighton  Court 

was  more  noticeable  than  anything,  was  a  look  of  unut- 
terable joy  which  overspread  her  face,  and  had  its  origin 
in  too  many  infinitely  intricate  sources  for  it  to  be  possi- 
ble to  analyse  it,  or  to  say  it  was  expressed  so,  or  so. 
There  was  something  so  solemnly  beautiful  about  her, 
that  Sir  Harry  drew  back,  and  looked  on  puzzled — 

"  How  wonderfully  beautiful  she  looks  !  Why  is  she 
glad  Hilton  is  gone  ?  I  hope  I  have  not  been  too  care- 
less. She  is  looking  like  her  dead  mother  now.  I  never 
saw  her  mother,  but  I  know  she  is.  Well,  it  is  no  good 
trying  to  get  her  to  help  me  in  this  business  while  she  is 
in  this  saintlike  frame  of  mind ;  I  might  as  well  ask  that 
madonna  there.  I  see  I  must  do  it  all  myself." 

And  so  with  catlike  stealth  he  crept  away  through  the 
silent  house,  and  left  her  kneeling  with  her  hands  before 
her,  indulging  the  long -lost  but  new-found  luxury  of 
prayer. 


Chapter  XXXIX 

LORD  HATTERLEIGH  came  over  earlier  than  usual  the 
next  morning.  Laura  heard  his  horse  come  to  the  hall 
door,  and  heard  him  come  rattling  along  to  the  door  of 
the  breakfast-room,  where  she  sat  alone.  She  thought  he 
was  in  a  great  hurry,  but  until  he  had  shut  the  door  be- 
hind him  took  very  little  notice.  When  he  had  done  so 
she  looked  up,  and  was  filled  with  astonishment  and 
fear. 

Poor  gentleman,  he  was  a  sad  spectacle  !  He  looked 
pale  and  wild,  and,  what  was  more  extraordinary,  all  the 
latent  "Guy  "  element  in  the  man  had  come  out  stronger 
than  ever,  as  the  doctor  said  it  would  on  the  first  strain  of 
circumstances.  He  had  got  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  his  necktie  was  on  one  side,  and  one  of  his  shoe- 
strings was  untied.  Laura  saw  that  something  had  hap- 
pened, but  she  preserved  her  equanimity,  for  she  had 

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really  no  anticipation  of  anything  overwhelming.  She 
spoke  first — 

"  What  is  the  matter,  George  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Laura !  Laura !  I  have  got  such  a  dreadful  let- 
ter." 

"  Is  that  any  reason  why  you  should  keep  your  hat  on, 
not  to  say  wear  it  on  the  back  of  your  head,  like  a  lunatic  ? 
Sit  down,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  I  hardly  know  where  to  begin,"  said  poor  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh,  sitting  down. 

"  Begin  anywhere ;  and  as  for  leaving  off,  leave  off  as 
soon  as  I  order  you." 

It  was  the  last  piece  of  her  kindly  shrewishness  which  she 
ever  gave  to  him  or  anyone  else.  Lord  Hatterleigh  saw 
the  old  effort  to  be  smart  and  epigrammatical,  and  saw  the 
failure  also.  She  was  frightened.  He  paused  before  he 
went  on,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence.  She  would  not 
speak,  and  he  was  forced  to  begin.  He  sat,  and  looked 
steadily  and  kindly  at  her,  and  began  speaking.  She 
thought  he  had  never  looked  so  manly,  so  noble,  or  so 
good  as  he  looked  now,  when  every  word  he  spoke  was 
like  a  dull  blow  on  her  heart,  which  by  God's  mercy  dead- 
ened its  sensation,  and  prevented  her  going  mad. 

"  Laura,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remember  once  that  you 
turned  to  me  suddenly,  when  I,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  not 
prepared  for  your  doing  so  ;  when  I,  in  fact,  was  only  hop- 
ing that  you  could  get  to  love  me  after  getting  used  to  my 
uncouthness,  and  finding  out  by  degrees  my  better  quali- 
ties ;  you  remember  that  at  such  a  time  once  you  turned 
to  me  spontaneously,  and  told  me  that  you  had  always 
liked  me  and  trusted  me  ?  " 

"  I  went  further  than  that.  I  said  I  had  always  loved 
you  ;  and  so  I  always  did,  and  so  I  always  shall  in  a  sort 
of  way.  I  always  laughed  at  you,  and,  unless  my  heart  is 
broken  and  the  wells  of  laughter  get  dry,  I  always  shall 
whenever  you  are  ridiculous.  I  would  laugh  at  you  now 
if  you  were  not  so  serious.  Go  on." 

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Leighton  Court 

"  Do  you  remember  that  you  said  to  me  on  that  occa- 
sion, that  you  had  no  one  left  whom  you  could  trust  to 
but  me  ;  and,  moreover,  that  I  gave  you  my  knightly  word 
of  honour,  as  a  Peer  of  Great  Britain,  that  whatever  hap- 
pened would  make  no  difference  to  me — that  I  would 
stand  by  your  side  and  see  you  through  it  ?  " 

"  I  remember  all  that.     Go  on." 

"  Now  I  wish,  before  you  see  this  letter,  to  renew  that 
vow,  and  to  tell  you  that  this  letter  makes  no  difference  to 
me  ;  that  I  swear  by  my  title,  by  my  position,  by  my  fifty 
thousand  a-year,  that  no  cloud  shall  come  between  me  and 
you  !  Will  you  read  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  better.  I  would  have  made  you  a  shrewish  joke 
about  the  absurdity  of  your  swearing  by  your  income,  but 
I  fear  I  shall  make  few  more  jokes  in  this  world.  Give  it 
to  me  ;  and  give  me  one  kiss,  George,  before  I  read  it." 

He  tried  to  kneel  to  her,  but  she  would  not  have  it. 
"  We  must  be  very  cool  over  this  matter,"  she  said.  "  If 
we  were  only  Jemmy  and  Jessamy  it  would  be  different. 
You  are  Lord  Hatterleigh,  and  I  am  Laura  Seckerton. 
Now  for  the  letter ;  I  suppose  the  signature  is  Harry 
Poyntz." 

Lord  Hatterleigh  gave  it  to  her  without  a  word.  It  was 
infinitely  worse  than  she  had  anticipated  ;  there  was  ruin 
in  the  first  two  lines  of  it.  She  had  often  laughed  to  her- 
self at  the  idea  of  her,  with  her  secret,  being  received  into 
the  bosom  of  a  family  so  rampantly  offensively  particular 
as  that  of  the  Hatterleighs,  and  she  had  lately  determined 
that  it  would  not  do.  She  knew  that  she  loved  the  dead 
Poyntz-Hammersley  still :  and  her  plan  had  been  to  keep 
Lord  Hatterleigh  dangling  after  her,  nominally  engaged 
to  her ;  to  form  him  as  well  as  she  was  able,  to  cure  him 
of  his  Guy  Fawkes  habits,  and  so  by  degrees  show  him 
that  their  engagement  was  only  a  thing  of  words ;  to 
quietly  dismiss  him  as  soon  as  an  eligible  young  lady  ap- 
peared in  the  field,  and  to  keep  up  a  platonic  friendship 
with  him  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  while  she  herself  went 

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into  the  high-church  nursing-sisterhood  business.  That 
was  her  programme — not  a  bad  one  if  that  unaccountable 
bedlamite  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  had  not  drawn  a  wet  sponge 
through  the  whole  matter.  As  she  read  his  letter  to  Lord 
Hatterleigh,  she  saw  that  her  engagement  to  him  must 
come  to  an  end  at  once  ;  and,  what  was  more,  that  there 
was  left,  over  and  above,  a  frightful  personal  scandal 
against  herself.  She  had  not  read  three  sentences  of  it 
before  she  looked  up  at  Lord  Hatterleigh,  and  said — 

"  I  wonder  why  he  did  this.  I  cannot  conceive  what  his 
motive  can  be.  But  a  lunatic  has  no  motives.  Perhaps 
it  is  better  that  he  has  done  it."  And  then  she  went  on, 
finished  it,  folded  it  up,  and  gave  it  back  to  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh, with  a  sigh,  saying :  "  Well,  that's  all  over !  " 

The  letter  was  as  follows : — 

"  MY  DEAR  HATTERLEIGH, — I  have  been  waiting  for 
someone  else  to  perform  this  exceedingly  unpleasant  task, 
but  as  no  one  seems  inclined  to  do  it,  I  must  open  your 
eyes  myself. 

"  Miss  Seckerton's  close  intimacy  with  young  Ham- 
mersley — a  noble  young  fellow,  certainly,  but  only  hunts- 
man, or  something  of  that  kind,  to  her  father — renders  it 
impossible  and  ridiculous  for  her  to  become  your  Countess. 

"  One  particular  and  private  meeting  which  took  place 
in  my  shrubberies  was  witnessed.  The  indiscretion  in 
this  particular  instance  will,  I  suppose,  accomplish  my 
object.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  HARRY  POYNTZ." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  false  villain  ?  " 
said  Lord  Hatterleigh.  "  You  must  commission  me  to  go 
to  him  and  give  him  the  lie  to  his  face  ! " 

"  I  can't  do  that ;  it  is  all  true  enough,"  she  said,  wearily. 

"  All  true  enough  !  "  he  cried,  aghast. 

"  All  true  enough  to  ruin  me,  I  mean,"  she  said  ;  "  though 
of  course,  my  Lord,"  she  added,  suddenly  and  fiercely,  "  you 

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Leighton  Court 

understand  that  I  acted  with  the  most  perfect  discretion 
throughout  the  business." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  Did  you  dream  that  I  distrusted 
you  ?  "  Lord  Hatterleigh  answered,  proudly.  "  I  only  ask 
you  to  explain  so  far  as  to  enable  me  to  go  and  tell  that 
villain  he  lies  in  his  throat  —  not  a  word  more  than 
that ! " 

She  liked  him  better  now  she  had  lost  him  than  she  had 
ever  liked  him  before.  She  had  intended  to  break  off  her 
engagement ;  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  had  done  it  for  her,  and 
ruined  her  besides.  The  world  seemed  all  such  a  ghastly, 
weary  waste !  Only  one  hand  seemed  held  out  to  her,  and 
she  was  going  to  cast  that  hand  away — 

"  I  can  give  you  no  explanations.  As  he  has  put  the 
matter  it  is  utterly  false,  but  I  am  wearied  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  it  is  hateful  to  me.  Our  engagement  is  at  an 
end ! " 

"  It  is  nothing  of  the  kind ;  I  will  not  have  it  so  for  an 
instant." 

"  Do  not  you  see  that  it  is  wholly  impossible  for  you  to 
continue  it  if  I  refuse  you  those  explanations  ?  And  I  do 
refuse  them.  Here  is  your  ring." 

"  Laura,  one  moment  before  it  is  too  late " 

"  Not  another  word  until  you  have  taken  your  ring." 

He  was  forced  to  take  it,  and  said,  "  What  have  I  left 
to  live  for  now  ?  " 

"  Much,"  she  answered.  "  Now  we  can  talk  as  friends. 
You  have  me  to  live  for ;  I  am  in  want  of  a  friend." 

The  poor  gentleman  did  not  accept  his  position  at  all 
kindly,  but  sat  ruefully  silent. 

"  I  can  speak  no  more  on  the  subject  this  morning,"  she 
said ;  "  I  am  ill.  Go  away  now.  What  can  I  have  done 
to  make  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  use  me  so  cruelly  ?  " 

She  said  this  as  she  passed  out,  and  said  it  in  such  a 
pitiable  tone,  that  it  went  to  Lord  Hatterleigh 's  heart.  He 
thought  a  few  minutes,  and  then  hurled  himself  down  the 
stairs  out  of  the  room,  across  the  hall,  and  out  of  the  house. 

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Leighton  Court 

"  Send  my  horse  and  groom  after  me,"  was  all  he  said  to 
the  wondering  butler,  and  strode  away  gesticulating  across 
the  park. 


.Chapter  XL 

LADY  EMILY  and  her  mother  sat  alone  in  the  library, 
no  more  suspecting  that  there  was  anything  wrong  in  their 
domestic  affairs,  than  believing  that  the  granite  tors  of  the 
moor  were  breaking  from  their  bases,  and  coming  crash- 
ing about  their  heads.  They  had  never  had  a  hint  of  Sir 
Charles'  difficulties ;  and  he  used  to  see  them  day  after  day 
utterly  unconscious,  cheerful,  and  peaceful,  in  a  circle  of 
circumstances,  which  to  them  appeared  a  well-kept  English 
gentleman's  establishment,  but  which  to  him  seemed  only 
a  ghastly  heap  of  fraudulent  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

They  were  talking,  as  they  always  were  now,  of  Laura's 
approaching  marriage,  and  were  indeed  getting  busy  about 
it.  It  was  very  charming  to  Lady  Emily  to  have  the 
management  of  such  a  great  affair,  and  not  less  pleasant 
for  her  mother  to  be  consulted  (as  she  was  a  hundred  times 
a-day)  on  every  detail,  and  not  only  consulted  but  im- 
plicitly followed.  The  presents  were  dropping  in.  The 
Downes  only  the  day  before  had  sent  in  a  magnificently 
ostentatious  offering  from  Howell  and  James,  and  there  it 
stood  ;  even  Lady  Downes  and  Constance  Downes'  com- 
paratively humble  contributions  towering  above  all  the 
others  on  the  table,  while  Sir  Peckwich  himself  was  repre- 
sented by  an  almost  offensively  beautiful  centre-piece  for 
flowers,  which,  like  Sir  Peckwich  himself,  was  head  and 
shoulders  higher  than  the  other  two. 

"  I  hear  Laura's  footstep :  she  is  coming  to  look  at  the 
Downes'  presents." 

If  she  was  she  had  made  strange  preparations  for  doing 
so.  It  would  seem  much  more  likely  that  she  had  been 
getting  herself  ready  to  act  the  part  of  "  Medea."  She  was 

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Leighton  Court 

deadly,  ghastly  pale,  and  somehow — perhaps  by  some 
frenzied  motion  of  her  body,  perhaps  by  the  mere  clasping 
of  her  hands  to  her  heated  head — one  large  band  of  her 
hair  had  come  down  and  hung  across  her  face.  She  was 
very  calm,  and  her  mouth  was  set  firmly ;  but  the  instant 
the  two  ladies  looked  at  her,  they  saw  plainly  enough  that 
she  would  never  be  Countess  of  Hatterleigh. 

"  I  am  come  to  tell  you  both  that  I  have  broken  off  my 
engagement  with  Lord  Hatterleigh,  in  a  manner  which 
renders  all  reconsideration  impossible.  Will  you  tell  peo- 
ple about  it  for  me,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  I  am 
very  tired,  and  am  unable  to  speak  any  more  on  the 
subject." 

"  If  Lord  Hatterleigh  has  dared "  began  Lady  Emily. 

"  Lord  Hatterleigh  has  not  dared  anything,  my  dearest 
mother !  The  whole  thing  is  of  my  doing — my  fault  from 
beginning  to  end.  Lord  Hatterleigh  has  behaved  like  a 
very  noble  and  true-hearted  gentleman,  and  has  left  me 
very  unwillingly." 

Lady  Emily  immediately  went  down  on  her  knees. 
"  Laura,"  she  said,  "  let  your  own  mother  on  her  bended 
knees  implore  you  to  say  the  one  word  to  that  unhappy 
young  man,  which  will  bring  him  back  to  your  side,  and 
save  us  from  the  intolerable  ridicule  which  always  attaches 
to  the  breaking-off  a  match  when  it  has  gone  as  far  as  this 
one  has ! " 

"  Mother,  get  up." 

"  I  know  this  is  your  doing.  I  know  that  Hatterleigh 
was  too  infatuated — loved  you  too  dearly.  Oh,  say  the 
word — oh,  say  the  word,  and  save  us !  " 

"  Mother,  I  think  I  can  bear  what  I  have  to  bear.  You 
may  make  it  harder  for  me  by  these  scenes,  but  I  will  try. 
I  wish  you  to  understand,  once  for  all,  that  it  is  all  over 
between  us,  and  that  no  power  on  earth  can  ever  make 
me  alter  my  decision." 

She  left  the  room ;  and  Lady  Emily,  getting  up  from 
her  knees— by  no  means  so  easy  a  process  as  going  down 

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Leighton  Court 

on  them — turned  to  her  mother,  and  said,  "  Here  is  a 
pretty  business ! " 

"  I  never  thought  it  would  do,"  said  Lady  Southmolton. 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,  my  dear  mother ;  I  have  heard 
that  before,"  replied  Lady  Emily,  with  perfect  truth,  but 
with  more  tartness  than  was  necessary.  "  The  question 
is,  what  is  to  be  done?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I  am  aware  of,  except  writing  to  Jane 
Clark." 

"  Jane  Clark  is  dead,"  said  Lady  Emily,  still  snappishly. 
"  Do  you  mean  to  advise  me  to  sit  down  under  this  ?  " 

"  Whether  I  advise  you  to  do  so  or  not,  my  dear  Emily, 
you  will  have  to  do  so.  You  had  better  stop  any  further 
expense." 

"  The  milliner  will  put  it  all  about  London." 

"  Not  she  :  a  hundred  others  will  have  done  it  for  her," 
said  Lady  Southmolton,  who  had  never  been  spoken  to 
sharply  by  her  daughter  before,  and  had  no  idea  of  stand- 
ing it. 

"  It  is  so  sudden,"  said  Lady  Emily  ;  "  and  we  have  had 
it  talked  about  so  much.  It  was  in  the  Post." 

"  It  is  the  most  sudden  and  scandalous  business  I  have 
ever  had  to  do  with,"  replied  her  mother.  "I  thought  I 
could  have  crept  to  my  grave  without  being  mixed  up  in  a 
business  of  this  kind.  But  I  will  not  complain  ;  I  will 
bear  my  cross,  Emily." 

"  You  seem  bent  on  driving  me  out  of  my  mind,  mother. 
Will  you  tell  me  what  to  do  ?  " 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.     Was  her  veil  ordered  ?  " 

"  You  know  it  was." 

"  Then  you  must  compromise.  The  milliner  is  a  most 
excellent  woman,  and  will  let  you  off  your  bargain  much 
cheaper  than  Madame  Muntalini  would  ;  but  I  should  tell 
her  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  out  of  mere  courtesy. 
Then  you  must  write  to  Gunter  and  tell  him  all  about  it ; 
say  you  don't  want  the  cake.  Then  you  will  have  to  tell 
Harry  Emmanuel  about  it,  and  so  on." 

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"  Mother!  mother!  why  are  you  so  cruel?  " 

"  Because  I  am  angry  with  you,  Emily  !  "  said  the  little 
old  lady,  stamping  her  foot  upon  the  floor.  "  Would  you 
have  dared  to  rebel  against  me  in  this  manner?  Why 
don't  you  do  your  duty  as  a  mother,  and  send  for  Lord 
Hatterleigh  yourself  ?  Why  do  you  allow  Laura  to  dic- 
tate to  you  in  this  shameful  way  ?  Order  Laura  to 
her  room,  and  sit  down  and  write  to  Lord  Hatterleigh 
yourself."  (The  little  old  lady  had  shaken  and  wagged 
her  head,  and  stamped  her  foot  so  much  by  now,  that 
she  might  almost  have  frightened  a  rabbit.)  "  Do 
you  think  that  at  Laura's  age  I  should  have  so  far  for- 
gotten every  moral  and  religious  duty  as  to  allow  you 
for  one  instant  to  behave  as  Laura  is  behaving  now? 
Never ! " 

"  I  know  you  would  not,  mother.  But  I  am  afraid  of 
Laura  ;  I  dare  not  speak  to  her !  " 

Old  Lady  Southmolton  was  so  filled  with  unutterable 
contempt  by  this  expression  of  weakness,  that  she  had 
nothing  to  say.  She  looked  up  to  heaven  as  though  pray- 
ing for  patience. 

"  Do  speak  to  her  yourself,  mother,  and  make  her  obey 
you,"  said  poor  Lady  Emily. 

At  this  very  alarming  proposition,  Lady  Southmolton 
came  back  to  earth  again  with  the  most  startling  rapidity  ; 
she  actually  tumbled  down,  headlong.  Her  first  act  on 
arriving  on  this  earth,  after  a  serene  contemplation  of  the 
deterioration  of  the  human  species  since  the  days  of 
Hannah  More — after  falling  suddenly,  from  a  height  of 
moral  speculation,  down  on  to  the  floor  of  extremely  dis- 
agreeable personal  practice — was,  so  to  speak,  to  sit  up  and 
look  round  her,  to  see  if  her  daughter  was  in  earnest,  or 
was  daring  to  make  game  of  her.  Poor  Lady  Emily  was 
perfectly  in  earnest — there  was  no  doubt  in  that.  Lady 
Southmolton  said,  quietly  scornful, — 

"  She  is  not  my  daughter  ;  she  is  yours.  I  am  not  her 
mother,  any  more  than  my  sainted  Southmolton  was  her 

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father.  I  wash  my  hands  of  her !  Do  not  drive  me  to  say 
that  I  wash  my  hands  of  you — of  my  own  daughter !  " 

The  idea  of  Lady  Southmolton  washing  her  hands  of 
her  was  so  dreadful  to  Lady  Emily,  that  she  went  through 
the  action  of  washing  her  own,  and  moaned  and  wailed 
herself  into  silence,  as  ladies  do  in  such  cases.  When 
everything  had  been  quite  quiet  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
from  Lady  Emily's  last  sob,  Lady  Southmolton,  solemnly 
but  on  the  whole  in  a  conciliatory  jnanner,  said, — 

"  Emily !  " 

Lady  Emily  threw  herself  on  her  mother's  bosom,  and 
went  through  the  sobbing  business  again  —  but  three 
octaves  lower,  and  many  minutes  shorter  ;  after  which 
they  talked  together  in  a  reasonable  manner.  But  all  that 
they  arrived  at  was  that  girls  were  not  as  they  used  to  be, 
and  that  dear  Laura  was  very  strange ;  that,  on  the  whole, 
they — they — were  both  horribly  afraid  of  her,  could  not  in 
the  least  degree  calculate  what  she  would  do  next,  and  so 
had  better  leave  her  to  herself :  which  they  did. 


Chapter  XLI 

SIR  HARRY  POYNTZ  was  sitting  at  his  library-table 
turning  over  his  papers.  This  became  day  after  day  a 
more  difficult  and  tiresome  business  for  him.  He  knew 
that  his  brain  was  softening,  and  he  had  submitted  to  his 
fate  in  that  matter  with  that  quaint  godless  fatalism  which 
possibly  was  part  of  his  disease.  He  had  told  Hilton  that 
the  only  thing  which  annoyed  him  was,  that  those  fits  of 
irritability  were  beyond  his  control.  He  said,  in  his  queer 
way,  that  it  was  so  unutterably  exasperating  to  find  that 
he  couldn't  keep  his  temper.  But  these  fits  had  grown 
milder  as  the  disease  went  on,  and  had  altogether  ceased  ; 
but  as  they  ceased  a  new  cause  of  irritation  seemed  aris- 
ing. He  had  always  been  the  most  methodical  as  well  as 
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the  most  catlike  cleanly  of  men,  and  now  he  began  to  find 
that  his  papers  got  wrong,  and  that  he  was  getting  untidy 
in  his  dress.  This  vexed  him  considerably. 

He  was  in  a  mess  with  his  papers  this  morning.  He 
had  found  himself  getting  angry,  and,  being  fearful  of  one 
of  his  old  fits  of  fury  coming  on,  had  dismissed  the  stew- 
ard with  a  sweet  smile,  on  pretence  of  a  headache.  He  had 
made  an  effort  to  bring  his  mind  to  a  focus,  and  to  get  his 
papers  in  order ;  but  he  found  that  the  effort  was  beyond 
him — and  there  was  no  one  to  help  him. 

"  The  game  is  very  nearly  up,"  he  thought ;  "  I  wish 
Bob  was  here." 

Suddenly  there  came,  as  there  will  in  such  cases,  a  sud- 
den activity  of  brain,  a  more  rapid  passage  of  blood,  or  if 
not  that  something  else.  He  suddenly  saw,  in  one  instant, 
that  he  was  all  alone,  without  a  single  friend  in  this  world, 
and  utterly  without  hope  or  belief  in  the  next.  The  first 
effect  of  this  flash  of  intelligence  was  infinitely  mournful 
— the  second  most  ghastly  and  most  horrible.  There  came 
on  him,  for  one  moment,  that  sense  of  illimitable  distance 
from  others,  which  no  man  can  feel  for  many  seconds  and 
keep  his  reason.  The  nightmare  passed  away,  and  left  him 
sitting  there  careless,  stupid,  and  desperate. 

When  the  brain  quickened  again,  he  began  thinking 
about  his  brother  Robert,  and  wishing  that  he  would  come 
back,  and  that  he  might  hear  that  Robert  had  forgiven  him 
from  his  own  lips.  He  did  not  acknowledge  to  himself 
that  he  had  been  to  blame  in  their  life-long  quarrel ;  he 
only  wished  that  Robert  would  tell  him  they  were  good 
friends.  "  I  wish  we  could  start  afresh.  How  was  I  to 
know  that  Bob  was  a  hero  ?  I  suppose,"  went  on  the  poor 
fellow,  "  that  I  must  be  wrong.  Everyone  loved  him,  and 
everyone  hated  me.  Why  did  he  always  hate  and  despise 
me  so  ?  Why  did  he  irritate  me,  and  make  me  hate  him  ? 
Well,  Master  Bob,  I  have  brains  enough  to  be  even  with 
you  yet ! " 

Someone  laid  a  light  hand  on  his  shoulder.    He  said, 

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"  Bob,  I'll  be  even  with  you.  You'll  be  devilish  sorry  for 
me  when  I  am  gone."  And  then  he  looked  up  and  found 
his  wife  standing  over  him. 

"  Maria,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  I  have  had  the  nightmare. 
Do  you  wish  me  dead  ?  " 

"  Harry  !  Harry  !  give  up  talking  so  wildly." 

"  I  am  not  talking  wildly  at  all.  Maria,  do  you  think, 
for  the  short  time  we  have  left  to  live  together,  that  you 
could  be  friends  with  me  ?  It  is  so  horrible  to  die  without 
one  single  friend  !  " 

"  I  will  be  a  faithful  and  good  wife  to  you,  Harry.  We 
have  both  made  a  mistake.  You  have  so  often  and,  let  me 
say,  so  coarsely  put  that  before  me,  times  innumerable,  that 
I  have  no  delicacy  in  speaking  about  it.  I  have  been 
saved  from  unutterable  woe  by  God's  providence,  and  my 
heart  is  tender  towards  you,  my  poor  Harry — very  tender ! 
Why  are  you  so  hopelessly  wicked  as  to  make  it  impossible 
for  me  to  love  you  ?  " 

"  What  have  I  been  doing  so  unutterably  wicked 
lately  ?  " 

"  Harry,  why  have  you  ruined  Laura  Seckerton  ?  Why 
did  you  write  that  horrible  letter  ?  I  have  just  been  with 
her  ;  she  seems  the  same  to  the  world,  but  you  have  driven 
her  half-mad.  We  have  come  together  again  after  all  our 
misunderstandings,  and  I  tell  you,  Harry,  that  she  is 
broken-hearted." 

"  Serve  her  right !  "  said  Harry  Poyntz,  laughing  ;  "  she 
wanted  a  lesson.  Let  her  keep  her  tongue  between  her 
teeth  another  time." 

Maria  was  so  exasperated  by  this  brutality  that  she  rose 
up,  and  paced  up-and-down  the  room  in  furious  heat,  de- 
nouncing him.  There  was  nothing  she  did  not  say  of 
him.  When  she  had  somewhat  cooled,  she,  in  a  very  im- 
perial manner,  without  in  the  least  degree  thinking  what 
she  was  about,  declared  she  would  live  with  him  no  long- 
er, and  formally  demanded  a  separation.  Meanwhile 
Sir  Harry  laughed  louder  and  louder  as  she  went  on, 

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which,  however  she  might  conceal  it,  drove  her  nearly 
wild. 

"  Separation ! "  he  said  at  last,  amidst  his  laughter. 
"  Why,  Sir  Charles  Seckerton  came  over  here  once  to  rep- 
resent to  me  your  goings  on  with  Hilton.  I  knew  and 
trusted  you,  Maria,  and  I  sent  him  back  shorn.  Come, 
Maria,  be  sensible  ;  come  and  hear  all  about  it.  Let  us 
have  no  nonsense." 

Poor  Lady  Poyntz  had  nothing  more  to  say.  She  was 
obliged  to  listen,  however  indignantly ;  innocent  as  she 
was,  she  was  obliged  to  be  calm.  She  came  and  sat  down 
beside  him. 

"  Maria,"  he  said,  "  I  did  write  that  letter." 

"  No  one  doubts  it ;  you  signed  your  name  to  it.  I  came 
in  here  to-night  in  a  softened  mood,  to  behave  as  a  wife  to 
you ;  and  you,  by  your  hopeless  wickedness,  have  exas- 
perated me  to  that  extent  that  I  have  utterly  lost  my  tem- 
per with  you.  Why  have  you  ruined  Laura  ?  " 

"  You  mean,  why  have  I  broken  off  her  engagement  to 
that  Guy  Fawkes  booby,  Hatterleigh  ?  " 

"  You  may  put  it  as  you  will.  Why  have  you  involved 
her  name  with  Hammersley,  sir  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Sir  Harry,  calmly,  "  I  want  her  to 
marry  my  brother  Bob.  I  have  bought  up  every  mort- 
gage on  that  estate,  and  I  could  sell  Sir  Charles  up  to- 
morrow. By  my  arrangements,  Laura,  with  her  dam- 
aged reputation " 

"  Her  damaged  reputation,  sir ! "  blazed  out  Lady 
Poyntz.  "  How  dare  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  aware  of  her  perfect  discretion,  but  I  was  not 
speaking  of  that ;  I  was  speaking  of  her  reputation.  With 
her  reputation  she  will  be  glad  to  marry  Bob,  and  the  two 
estates  will  be  joined,  you  see  ;  and  her  father's  creditor 
will  be  his  own  son-in-law,  and  they  will  all  live  happy 
for  the  rest  of  their  lives." 

"  It  is  a  cunning  scheme,"  she  said,  "  and  I  so  far  like 
your  part  in  it  as  to  see  that  you  mean  well  by  your 

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brother.  But  you  little  know  Laura ;  she  would  sooner 
be  burnt  alive  than  marry  a  man  under  such  circum- 
stances." 

"  But  I  have  put  her  reputation  at  zero  ;  I  have  told 
others  about  it.  I  tell  you  she  will  be  glad  to  marry  any- 
one." 

"  I  have  no  patience  with  you !  You  have  ruined  her 
for  nothing.  All  she  will  do  will  be  to  go  into  a  convent." 

"  I  thought  she  was  a  sound  churchwoman." 

"  A  desperate  woman  soon  gets  over  a  few  little  difficul- 
ties of  creed.  Besides,  another  thing  will  show  you  the 
absolute  folly  of  your  plan.  Your  brother  Robert — he — 
this  heroic  man,  with  all  the  pride  and  bloom  of  his  hero- 
ism fresh  upon  him,  is  to  marry  this  woman,  whose  repu- 
tation you  have  so  carefully  undermined.  You  have  gone 
muddling  and  scheming  on,  until  you  have  done  irrepa- 
rable mischief,  and  ruined  a  noble  woman." 

She  turned  and  left  him  in  indignation,  and  looked  back 
after  she  passed  the  door.  Sir  Harry  was  looking  at  her 
with  a  half-silly,  half-sly  expression,  and  was  laughing  at 
her.  There  was  more  about  him  than  she  could  under- 
stand. She  was  sorry  to  have  lost  her  temper  with  him, 
and  she  went  back  and  kissed  him.  After  that  she  passed 
out,  and  left  him  sitting  in  his  chair. 


Chapter  XLII 

THE  next  morning  Laura  had  risen  early,  had  taken 
her  sketch-book,  put  some  food  in  her  hunting-canteen, 
and  walked  away  alone  through  the  park  to  the  Vicarage. 

The  Vicar  was  away  that  morning — she  knew  that  well 
enough  ;  but  she  only  wanted  the  Vicar's  wife,  whom  she 
found  alone. 

"  I  only  want  the  key  of  the  church." 

Mrs.  Vicar  hardly  spoke,  but  seemed  to  think  the  more. 
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She  had  actually  given  the  key  to  Laura,  and  Laura  was 
turning  away,  when  the  two  scarlet  gloves  were  whipped 
suddenly  round  her  neck  ;  and  she  found  herself  violently 
kissed,  and  the  next  instant  "The  Umbrella"  was  stand- 
ing before  her,  nourishing  a  scarlet  fist  within  an  inch  of 
her  nose. 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  had  the  trouncing  of  some  of  them  !  Oh, 
if  I  could  get  Tom  Downes  to  play  Benedict  to  a  certain 
gentleman's  Claudio ! " 

"  Hush  !  hush !  "  said  Laura ;  "  there  is  no  one  to 
blame.  Just  think  of  what  you  are  saying ;  how  very 
dreadful ! " 

"  I  am  not  an  image,"  said  the  Vicar's  wife.  "  I  am 
not  a  stone  gargoyle,  to  have  a  mouth  and  never  speak. 
I  am  furious,  I  tell  you." 

"Quiet — quiet,  old  friend,"  said  Laura;  "you  should 
help  me  to  be  quiet,  and  not  make  me  angry." 

"  I  should,  but  I  can't,"  said  she  of  the  red  gloves.  "  Oh, 
Laura,  if  I  only  had  Lord  Hatterleigh  here ! " 

"  What  would  you  do  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  would  give  him  such  a  piece  of  my  mind.  Oh, 
Laura,  they  have  used  you  so  shamefully  !  " 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  I  cannot  see  that  at  all.  In  the  first 
place,  Lord  Hatterleigh  :  Do  you  know  that  I  might  be  Lady 
Hatterleigh  now,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  passed,  and  rule 
him  with  a  rod  of  iron  ?  Do  you  know  that  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh is  the  most  perfect  gentleman  and  the  most  high- 
minded  man  I  have  ever  met  ?  My  dear  soul,  I  have 
committed  an  indiscretion,  and  am  suffering  for  it — that 
is  all ! " 

"  There  is  a  villain  somewhere,  Laura." 

"  I  don't  see  why  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  should  have  been  so 
cruel.  But  it  is  all  for  the  best.  Now,  give  me  the  key." 

"  Why  are  you  going  inco  the  church  ?  " 

"  To  practise  the  organ.  All  my  old  habits  are  cut 
away.  I  will  not  ride  again.  I  cannot  look  at  the  poor 
people ;  they  will  sympathise  with  me,  and  I  cannot  cure 


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them  of  it ;  and  I  won't  be  sympathised  with.  They  have 
no  manners,  those  poor  folks.  And  the  regulation  of 
hours  of  business  won't  do  now.  Your  husband  and  my 
grandmother  would  recommend  it,  I  know,  but  it  won't 
do ;  I  have  got  the  '  snatches  '  on  me  too  strong  for  that. 
And  I  have  tried  to  paint,  but — but  what  is  the  use  of  los- 
ing your  temper  over  a  thing  of  that  kind  ? — and  so  it  is  all 
gone  but  my  most  wickedly-neglected  music,  and  I  am 
going  to  try  that ;  therefore  give  me  the  key,  and  I  will  call 
at  the  school  for  a  boy  to  blow,  and  I  will  see  what  that 
will  do." 

And  so  she  went ;  and  she  of  the  red  gloves  said  to 
herself—"  They  have  played  old  gooseberry  with  a  very 
fine  girl  among  them.  Why,"  she  said  indignantly  to  the 
ambient  air,  as  if  the  very  winds  of  heaven  were  to  blame, 
"  there  wasn't  a  finer  girl  than  that  in  the  Three  King- 
doms !  What  have  you  been  doing  with  her,  you  two  old 
trots  "  (which  was  personal),  "  and  you  extravagant  old 
zany  in  topboots  ?  "  (which  was  more  personal  still).  "  I 
wish  I  had  the  trouncing  of  you !  Got  nothing  left  but 
the  organ,  and  can't  play  that !  If  I  was  her  I'd  go  to 
Rome,  out  of  sheer  spite ;  that  would  be  the  way  to  ex- 
asperate them." 

If  the  Vicar  could  only  have  heard  her !  But  he  was 
away  at  Exeter  at  the  Visitation.  They  called  her,  in  joke, 
"  The  Umbrella,"  partly  from  her  figure,  and  partly  from 
her  inanimate  submission  to  her  husband.  She  let  him  do 
as  he  would  with  her  ;  the  red  gloves  were  a  case  in  point. 
But  sometimes,  to  everyone's  astonishment  and  confusion, 
"  The  Umbrella,"  so  to  speak,  put  herself  up,  and  refused 
to  be  got  through  narrow  high-church  passages  and  door- 
ways after  her  husband,  or  to  be  put  down  again — a  most 
obstinate  old  umbrella  with  a  very  rusty  spring. 

Laura,  laughing  to  herself,  went  into  the  church  ;  and 
soon  afterwards  the  boy  came,  and  she  began  playing. 
The  church  was  very  dear  to  her,  and  she  wished  to  get 
back  once  more  into  the  old  church-routine.  Nothing  had 


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ever  satisfied  her  so  well  as  that,  after  all.  As  for  com- 
municating— as  for  returning  to  the  old  pretty  woman's 
ministrations  (in  the  way  of  ornament,  and  so  on,  about 
the  altar),  that  was  impossible  to  her.  There  was  a  vin- 
dictive chord  in  her  heart,  which  was  vibrated  twenty 
times  a  day ;  and  at  every  vibration  she  said,  "  Oh,  if  I 
had  a  brother ! "  The  old  church-peace  was  not  attainable, 
now  that  she  had  fully  put  before  herself  her  utter  exas- 
peration against  Sir  Harry  Poyntz.  He  came  to  church, 
and  she  could  not  kneel  and  pray  with  him.  She  hated 
him,  and  she  did  not  in  the  least  conceal  it  from  herself. 
He  had  gratuitously  ruined  her,  and  she  hated  him  ! 

She  had  tried  all  her  old  round  of  duties  and  pleasures, 
and  they  were  all  dead  and  dull.  She  had  a  fancy  to  shut 
herself  up  in  the  old  church  and  play  the  organ — to  take 
once  again  to  her  long-neglected  music.  The  poor  girl  was 
hunted  and  illused,  and  she  had  nothing  else  to  look  to. 
"  I  will  practise,  and  then  I  can  play  on  Sundays,  and  so 
have  some  part  in  the  worship  ;  and  I  can  sit  here  behind 
the  curtain,  and  see  them  communicating.  It  is  better 
than  nothing." 

So  she  in  her  Galilee.  She  was  not  very  clever,  or  very 
devout,  or  very  sentimental ;  but  she  was  very  truthful, 
very  brave,  and  surely  as  hard  beset  as  a  woman  need  be. 
The  chords  all  went  wrong :  her  hands  had  got  strong 
enough  with  her  riding  to  grip  any  keys  ever  made,  but 
she  had  lost  the  fingering  of  the  keys,  and  the  trick  of  the 
stops,  and  what-not ;  and  she  could  get  no  harmony  out 
of  the  old  instrument,  which  she  had  heard  sounding  so 
sweetly  under  other  hands.  Her  foolish  fancy  of  speaking 
her  sorrows  by  the  organ  to  those  of  the  congregation 
who  still  dared  approach  the  altar  was  gone ;  even  this 
quaint  fancy,  her  last  hope,  was  unattainable.  There  was 
no  resource  left.  She  sent  away  the  boy  who  blew  the 
bellows,  and  began  to  cry.  It  is  hard  to  laugh  at  an 
utterly  lone  woman  crying  over  the  keys  of  an  organ.  I 
cannot,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  cannot  either. 
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To  find  her  father  beside  her  was  no  surprise.  She 
only  said,  in  a  low,  indignant,  almost  objurgative  tone,  "  I 
have  forgotten  my  music,  now  I  wanted  to  play  for  them 
in  church.  But  I  can't  play — I  have  lost  everything.  I 
have  behaved  so  well,  too.  What  have  I  done  that  I 
should  be  treated  so  ?  I  have  told  Hatterleigh  everything, 
and  he  would  have  me  now  if  I  had  not  been  so  honest  as 
to  refuse  him.  What  have  I  done  to  Harry  Poyntz  that  he 
should  ruin  my  character  ?  " 

"  Laura,"  said  her  father,  "  Harry  Poyntz  is  dead  !  " 

"  What ! "  she  cried,  starting  up  and  looking  at  him. 
"  Come  out  of  this  place ;  let  me  hear  no  more  here. 
Come  into  the  churchyard — no,  not  in  the  churchyard,  out 
on  to  the  mill-green.  Dead  is  he  ?  Who  has  killed  him  ? 
Oh,  father !  father !  there  has  been  nothing  between  him 
and  Hatterleigh  ?  " 

Her  father  looked  surprised,  but  went  on — 

"  He  was  found  dead.  Lady  Poyntz  had  left  him  sit- 
ting in  his  chair,  and  soon  after  the  servant  brought  him 
a  letter  which  a  man  on  horseback  had  brought  over  from 
Plymouth.  Harry  went  and  lay  on  the  sofa  to  read  it, 
and  very  soon  after  the  man  heard  him  laughing  uproari- 
ously. He  laughed  so  loud  and  so  long  that  the  servant 
feared  he  would  hurt  himself.  At  last  he  was  silent,  and 
silent  so  long  that  the  servant  went  back " 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Laura. 

"  He  was  quite  dead,  my  love.  He  had  gone  off  with  a 
spasm  of  the  heart,  perhaps  brought  on  by  his  laughter — 
a  strange  end  to  a  strange  life  ! " 

"  Oh,  may  God  have  mercy  on  him !  "  said  Laura.  "  Oh, 
Harry  !  Harry  !  I  forgive  you  so  heartily." 

"  They  sent  for  me  early  this  morning,  and  among  other 
things  showed  me  the  letter  which  had  caused  the  poor 
fellow  such  amusement.  It  was  from  Hatterleigh.  He 
called  Harry  liar  and  coward,  and  informed  him  that  he 
waited  for  him  at  Dessin's,  at  Calais,  with  a  friend." 

"  And  he  only  laughed  at  it !    You  see  that  he  died  in 

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charity  with  him,  at  all  events.     Poor  fellow,  what  could  I 
have  done  to  make  him  use  me  so  ?  " 

"  Laura,"  answered  her  father,  "  it  is  time  you  knew  the 
reasons  for  his  line  of  action.  He  had  set  his  heart  on 
your  marriage  with  his  brother  Robert,  and  the  union  of 
the  two  estates." 

"  How  did  he  dare !   I  forgot.  But  he  must  have  been 

mad,  for  I  never  saw  the  man,  and  the  man  never  saw  me." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  Harry  has  broached  the  idea 
to  him,  and  he  has  taken  most  kindly  to  it.  In  fact,  there 
is  nothing  whatever  to  prevent  you  becoming  Lady  Poyntz, 
if  you  feel  any  inclination  for  such  an  honour." 

"Oh,  father !  father !  how  utterly  you  would  despise  me 
if  I  did  so  !  " 

"  I  really  cannot  see  why,"  he  angrily  broke  out;  "I 
really,  God  grant  me  patience,  cannot.  It  is  high  time 
you  were  settled  in  life — you  must  be  aware  of  it.  We 
have  none  of  us  said  a  word  to  you  about  your  behaviour 
to  Hatterleigh.  You  might  have  had  him  and  his  fifty 
thousand  a-year  back  by  saying  one  word,  and  you  wouldn't 
say  it.  I  don't  believe  you  would  say  it  to  save  your  old 
father  from  ruin.  Now  I  tell  you  once  for  all,  that  if  Sir 
Robert  makes  you  the  subject  of  this  magnificent  offer,  and 
you  refuse  him  on  sentimental  grounds,  it  will  materially 
alter  the  relations  between  yourself  and  the  rest  of  your 
family." 

Laura  had  become  very  pale,  but  her  heart  was  going 
fast  and  furious. 

"  Now  look  here,"  she  said,  turning  to  her  father  and 
forcing  him  to  look  at  her ;  "  you  talk  about  altered  rela- 
tions. They  are  altered — they  have  long  been  altered. 
And  as  for  this  Sir  Robert  Poyntz,  I  would  not  marry  a 
royal  person  on  such  terms.  Who  is  he  that  he  DARE 
make  me  a  part  of  one  of  his  schemes  for  increasing  his 
estate,  the  least  important  element  in  which  seems  to  be 
considered  my  consent  to  marry  him  ?  It  is  monstrous — 
the  whole  of  it — monstrous !  " 
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Poor  Sir  Charles  was  now  driven  to  despair,  and  spoke 
as  a  desperate  man,  lost  to  sense  of  shame,  but  with  a  dim 
hope  of  his  object  beyond  a  sea  of  degradation,  and  de- 
termined to  plunge  in  and  wade  through.  As  he  went  on, 
Laura  was  shocked  and  frightened  to  see  how  his  nature 
had  given  way  under  the  wear-and-tear  of  concealed  diffi- 
culties, and  that  the  best  half  of  it  seemed  to  have  disap- 
peared. She  remembered  a  noble,  grand,  upright  gentle- 
man— the  worthy  magistrate,  the  generous  patron,  the 
courteous  host,  the  wise  friend — whom  she  had  loved  and 
called  "  Father ;  "  she  saw  before  her  a  miserable,  bent, 
selfish  old  man,  unable  to  look  his  daughter  in  the  face, 
who  went  through  his  wretched  part  with  the  air  and  the 
whine  of  a  begging-letter  writer. 

"  Laura,  I  must  tell  you  at  once  that,  if  we  cannot  make 
this  arrangement  with  him,  your  poor  unhappy  old  father 
is  ruined ! " 

"  Ruined !" 

"  Ruined  utterly  !  Our  existence  in  this  place  has  been 
a  fiction  for  a  year  or  two  past.  Sir  Harry  Poyntz  spared 
me  in  hopes  of  executing  his  darling  scheme.  If  we  dis- 
appoint this  man,  there  is  no  hope  whatever  ! " 

"  Let  me  sit  down,"  she  said — "  I  cannot  stand  any 
longer ;  "  and  she  sat  down  on  the  root  of  a  tree,  and  heard 
him  go  on. 

"  He  is  my  only  creditor ;  the  arrangement  would  be 
actually  perfect  in  every  way.  I  would  give  up  the  hounds, 
if  he  insisted  on  it.  Nothing  stands  in  the  way  but  your- 
self. And  what  is  all  that  your  poor  father  asks  of  you  ? 
To  make  one  of  the  finest  matches  in  England,  and  save 
a  father  from  ruin  !  " 

"  Cannot  we  do  anything  ?  Is  there  no  hope  else- 
where ?  " 

"  None ! " 

"  Has  grandma  no  money  she  can  lend  you  ?  " 

"  She  has  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  I  want  eighty 
thousand,"  said  Sir  Charles,  curtly. 

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"  But  other  people  get  ruined.  I  should  not  mind  it  ex- 
cept for  you.  And  I  would  take  such  care  of  you,  and 

work  for  you Believe  me,  father,  we  might  be  quite  as 

happy  without  all  these  miserable  superfluities !  Dear 
father,  do  think " 

"  You  speak  like  a  child,  my  poor  Laura  !  There  is  one 
other  point  which  you  force  me  to  mention,  though  I  would 
rather  have  avoided  it.  With  this  ruin  will  come  disgrace !  " 

"  Disgrace !  what  disgrace  ?  "  asked  Laura. 

"  You  may  spare  your  father,  Laura.  It  is  hard  to  have 
to  make  the  confession — spare  me  the  details.  It  should 
be  enough  for  you  to  know  that  it  is  disgrace  so  deep  that 
none  of  our  name  could  survive  it.  Now  you  know  all !  " 

She  sat  perfectly  silent  for  a  long  while ;  he  could  not 
tell  whether  she  had  yielded  or  not.  When  she  spoke  at 
last  her  voice  was  changed,  and  she  spoke  in  a  hard  res- 
olute tone.  She  rose,  too,  without  any  help,  and  seemed 
perfectly  firm — 

"  We  will  talk  no  more  of  this  ;  the  subject  is  distasteful. 
I  suppose  Sir  Robert  Poyntz  will  have  the  tact  and  pro- 
priety to  behave  as  if  he  knew  nothing  about  these  arrange- 
ments ;  and  I  hope  that  a  proper  time  will  be  allowed  to 
elapse.  Now  I  will  go  and  look  at  the  church.  I  think  I 
should  prefer  to  walk  home  alone,  please." 

So  she  went  back  towards  the  church ;  and,  when  she 
came  to  the  gate,  turned  and  saw  him  walking  away,  with 
bowed  head,  under  the  shadow  of  the  elms. 

"  I  must  save  him,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  and,  what  is 
more,  I  must  not  think,  or  I  shall  go  mad.  I  only  want 
a  little  more  hardening,  and  it  will  come  easy  enough.  I 
must  be  as  Maria  was  when  she  married  poor  Harry — if  I 
can.  She  might  help  me,  but  she  is  so  strangely  changed 

and  softened I  must  go  through  it  by  myself.  I  must 

become  desperate,  lest  my  father's  blood  should  lie  at  my 
door." 

She  was  alone,  desperate  and  forlorn  ;  the  dead,  so  much 
happier  than  she,  lay  all  around  her,  and  she  envied  them. 
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She  sat  on  one  of  the  green  mounds,  and  thought  of  her 
position. 

"  I  would  have  been  so  good  if  Hammersley  had  never 
come  "  (for  she  was  getting  desperate,  taking  leave  of  her 
better  self  forever,  and  concealed  nothing),  "  but  he  came 
and  spoilt  it  all,  and  ruined  everything.  And  I  know  now 
that  I  love  him  still  as  well  as  ever,  and  should  have  done 
poor  Lord  Hatterleigh  a  wrong.  I  saw  that  after  I  broke 
with  him.  And  I  put  all  thoughts  of  him  aside  so  loyally 
while  I  was  engaged  to  George,  and  only  thought  of  him 
again  when  I  was  free ;  I  thought  they  might  have  left  me 
alone,  and  not  driven  me  to  this  pass.  I  am  sure  I  don't 
want  to  accuse  anybody  ;  but  why  has  my  father  gone  on 
with  this  selfish  ostentation  until  he  is  obliged  to  sacrifice 
the  creature  he  loves  best  in  the  world — to  put  on  his  own 
dear  daughter's  face  a  brazen  defiant  look,  which  she  must 
wear  till  her  death  ?  And  my  mother  and  my  grand- 
mother, how  much  do  they  know  of  this  horrible  business 
of  my  father's  ruin  ?  They  will  stroke  my  hair  and  praise 
me  for  being  dutiful,  while  I  am  getting  hardened  and 
desperate.  I  shall  have  to  dress  and  to  flaunt  it  out.  I 
can  stare  down  Constance  Downes,  but  I  can  never  face 
Maria  Poyntz  in  her  new  mood.  I  shall  die  if  that  woman 
turns  her  great  eyes  on  me.  She  has  been  through  it  all, 
and  has  come  out  again  with  a  face  like  a  saint ;  and  I, 
who  was  so  bitter  and  harsh  with  her,  must  go  through  it 
all,  with  those  eyes  of  hers  eating  into  my  soul.  I  wish  I 
was  dead — I  do  wish  I  was  dead  !  " 

She  rose  up  and  went  into  the  church,  and  looked  round. 
Their  seat  (Sir  Charles  was  lay  impropriator)  was  in  the 
chancel ;  but  she  would  not  enter  what  was  to  her,  in  her 
belief,  the  more  sacred  part  of  the  church — she  thought 
herself  unworthy.  She  went  round  the  building,  and 
wished  the  dear  old  place  good-bye.  She  had  always 
loved  the  church  from  childhood,  as  a  solemn  peaceful 
place,  which  seemed  to  hold  the  very  presence  of  God. 
She  had  sat  there  year  after  year,  under  long  weary  ser- 

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vices  and  dull  weary  sermoms,  with  the  sunlight  sloping  on 
the  tombs,  and  glimpses  of  the  wild  moor — the  fairyland  of 
her  childhood — seen  through  the  windows  ;  building  fan- 
cies about  the  dead  Poyntzes,  Seckertons,  and  Downes's, 
whose  effigies  crowded  the  chancel ;  and  since  the  Vicar 
had  come,  she  had  got  to  love  it  better  still.  In  spite  of 
all  his  fantastic  ritualisms,  the  man  knew  what  a  church 
was  originally  designed  to  mean,  and  had  taught  it  to  her. 
Then  she  had  taken  a  new  delight  in  it — had  decorated  it 
with  a  wilderness  of  glowing  flowers  at  Easter,  and  care- 
fully-woven patterns  of  box  and  holly  at  Christmas,  be- 
lieving that  she  was  doing  good  service  the  while.  Now 
the  hard  world  had  come  crashing  in,  and  had  thrown 
down  her  dear  loved  images.  All  that  was  past  and  gone, 
and  could  never  come  back  again ;  but  the  remembrance 
of  those  times  was  most  melancholy  and  most  pleasant. 
She  took  one  last  farewell  of  the  old  place,  put  on  her  new 
look  as  well  as  she  could,  locked  the  door,  and  passed  out 
of  the  porch  : 

To  meet  the  Vicar  leaning  against  a  grave-stone :  who 
said,  looking  keenly  at  her, — 

"  You  are  at  your  old  pious  duties,  I  see  ?  " 

To  whom  Laura,  trying  to  look  hardened  and  worldly, 
answered,  "  Not  at  all ;  I  was  taking  my  farewell  of  the 
church.  I  thought  you  were  away." 

"  So  I  was,  but  I  am  at  home  now.  My  wife  told  me 
you  were  here.  Have  you  been  saying  farewell  to  the 
church  ?  Are  you  not  coming  to  church  any  more,  then  ?  " 

•'  I  suppose  I  may,"  said  Laura. 

"  You  suppose  you  may  ?  "  said  the  Vicar.  "  To-mor- 
row is  the  feast  of  St.  Ebba  of  Moorwinstow.  Are  you 
coming  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  said  Laura. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  confession  this  week — eh  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Then  are  you  coming  to  church  on  Sunday  ?  "  asked 
the  Vicar.  "  1  would  if  I  was  you  :  everyone  does." 

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"  I  may  or  I  may  not — I  am  not  well — most  probably 
not." 

"  I  think  I  shall  see  you  at  church  on  Sunday,"  said  the 
Vicar.  "  I  say,  Laura,  don't  be  down-hearted  over  this 
business." 

"  What  business?  " 

"  This  business ;  you  know  what  I  mean." 

He  looked  so  good,  and  so  kind,  and  so  little  pretre, 
that  she  felt  very  much  inclined  to  melt,  and  tell  him 
everything.  But  it  would  never  do  to  begin  like  that.  She 
put  on  the  new  and  hitherto  unsuccessful  hard  look  again, 
and  said, — 

"  I  cannot  be  expected  to  understand  you,  Vicar." 

He  laughed — a  right  jolly  laugh  too,  and  said, — 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  What  news  can  matter  to  me  ?  " 

"  None,  of  course ;  but  I  will  tell  it.  Sir  Robert  Poyntz 
has  arrived  at  the  Castle." 

She  saw  he  knew  all.  In  trying  to  tell  him  how  cruel 
she  thought  him — in  trying  to  tell  him  that  it  was  mean  in 
him  to  laugh  at  her,  she  broke  down,  and  bursting  into 
tears  left  him  standing  where  he  was. 

"  Poor  child,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  after  her,  "  she  has 
been  hardly  tried!  But  it  will  do  her  good— and  God  has 
been  very  merciful  to  her.  Many  a  woman  has  had  her 
heart  broken  for  less  before  now.  Well,  let  her  go ;  I 
really  can't  pity  her  so  very  much." 

The  Vicar  took  a  turn  round  the  churchyard,  and 
stopped  against  Hammersley's  tablet,  and  said,  "  Hum — 
ha ! "  Going  closer  to  it  he  noticed  that  someone  had 
chipped  off  a  little  angle  of  the  stone.  "  Now  I  would  bet 
a  hundred  pounds  that  she  did  that,"  he  said.  "  And 
what  the  curious  part  of  it  is,  it  hasn't  been  done  a  week. 
I  wonder  if  she  did  do  it !  Well,  we  shall  see.  It  is  all 
in  God's  hands  now.  Heaven  help  us  fairly  through  it !  " 


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Chapter  XLIII 

LAURA  soon  wiped  her  tears.  All  the  world  was 
banded  together  against  her,  but  not  one  of  them  should 
see  that  she  had  been  crying.  She  had  to  make  her  face 
hard  ;  she  had  to  be  cool  and  defiant  towards  the  world 
in  future.  Maria  Poyntz  had  done  it,  and  she,  who  had 
six  times  her  brains,  could  surely  do  it  also  ! 

Why,  no — at  least  not  without  practice,  for  the  tears 
which  had  been  dried  began  to  flow  again.  Lady  Poyntz, 
with  less  heart  and  fewer  brains,  could  manage  the 
matter  better  than  Laura.  Powder  as  she  would,  her  eyes 
were  red  at  lunch  ;  but  she  was  singularly  cool  and  self- 
possessed,  though  her  mother  and  her  grandmother 
nearly  drove  her  out  of  her  mind. 

They  were  wonderfully  high-bred  women,  Tact  with 
them  had  become  almost  a  science.  They  had  no  written 
rules  of  tact,  but  they  had  so  many  unwritten  laws  of  that 
great  science  that  it  was  almost  reduced  to  exactitude. 
They,  especially  the  elder,  could  pronounce  in  an  instant 
whether  a  person  had  tact  or  had  not ;  the  consequence 
was  that  they  had  no  tact  at  all.  They  had  infinite  finesse 
doubtless,  all  according  to  rule.  It  is  humiliating  enough 
to  hear  a  costermonger  telling  his  wife  what  he  thinks  of 
her  in  the  vernacular,  but  it  is  still  more  humiliating  to  a 
quickwitted  person  to  watch  a  woman,  who  has  forgotten 
her  art,  trying  her  miserable  little  ruses  upon  him.  Laura 
was  such  a  quickwitted  person,  and  saw  in  two  minutes 
what  these  two  good  ladies  knew,  and  what  they  did  not 
know.  Her  feelings  towards  them,  as  in  some  other  cases 
were — first  curiosity,  then  contempt,  and  then  indignation. 

Their  buoyant  and  pious  gaiety  in  the  first  instance, 
though  not  overdone  (they  knew  better  than  that),  was 
perfectly  obvious.  There  was  no  reason  for  this  exhibition 
of  Christian  cheerfulness.  Poor  Harry  Poyntz  had  died 

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dreadfully  the  night  before  ;  and  on  any  other  similar  oc- 
casion her  grandmother  would  have  kept  her  room  except 
for  meals,  and  would  have  improved  the  occasion  as  soon 
as  her  soup  and  glass  of  sherry  had  put  life  enough  in  her 
to  talk.  Therefore,  why  did  she  twitter  like  an  old  dicky- 
bird the  moment  Laura  appeared  ?  Moreover  her  mother, 
the  inferior  actor  of  the  two,  was  arch.  Now,  if  there  was 
one  thing  Laura  hated  more  than  another,  it  was  arch- 
ness. She  saw  in  the  first  three  minutes  that  they  knew 
all  about  Sir  Robert  Poyntz's  intentions,  and  were,  as  far 
as  that  went,  in  her  father's  confidence. 

That  they  knew  nothing  of  the  impending  cloud  of  ruin 
hanging  over  their  heads,  she  saw  well  enough  also. 
"Poor  father!"  she  thought,  "he  has  behaved  badly 
enough,  but  he  has  confided  in  me,  and  I  will  serve  him. 
They  would  merely  sell  me  to  the  highest  bidder  to-mor- 
row." She  saw,  moreover,  that  they  were  both  afraid  of 
her,  and  she  behaved,  in  manner  only,  with  a  cool  reck- 
lessness which  they  must  perfectly  have. understood. 

One  wonders  if  they  had  sense  to  see  her  own  terror — 
a  terror  which  grew  on  her  as  minutes  went  on  :  the  terror 
of  first  seing  this  b£te  noire — this  detestable  Sir  Robert 
Poyntz,  to  whom  she  was  sold  like  a  sheep,  to  save  her 
father  from  ruin.  I  doubt  if  they  had ;  Laura's  honest, 
cool  recklessness  puzzled  them,  I  fancy.  But  the  terror 
was  there.  At  one  time  she  hated  him  ;  at  another  time 
she  made  wild  schemes  of  throwing  herself  on  his  generos- 
ity— appealing  to  his  manhood  to she  knew  not  what. 

She  saw  her  own  folly,  while  she  nursed  the  hope  of  its 
success.  She  was  like  a  hare  in  a  snare — deliverance 
would  only  come  with  death. 

And  this  man  was  within  three  hundred  yards  of  her. 
She  had  once  coolly  asked  where  her  father  was,  and  they 
had  told  her  that  he  was  over  at  the  Castle  with  Sir 
Robert.  Would  her  father  bring  him  home  to  dinner? 
she  asked  herself.  Of  course  he  would ;  she  would  see 
her  fate  at  seven  o'clock. 


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The  man  had  acted  heroically  in  India.  Yes  ;  but  there 
were  heroes  and  heroes,  as  she  knew  well.  One  man, 
whose  glorious  deed  of  arms  in  the  Crimea  had  sent  her 
wild  with  enthusiasm,  had  been  quartered  at  Plymouth. 
Her  father  had  asked  him  over.  She  had  dressed  herself 
with  extra  care  to  meet  him,  and  had  conned  a  pretty 
speech  for  him.  She  found  her  hero  —  a  scowling,  ill- 
tempered,  vulgar  fool,  with  no  visible  quality  save  feroc- 
ity. 

So  as  the  afternoon  went  on,  and  time  got  shorter,  she 
found  herself  hating  and  dreading  this  man  beyond  con- 
ception. She  discussed  with  herself  whether  she  could  best 
face  it  out  by  coming  down  to  dinner  first  or  last.  Last 
she  thought,  on  the  whole  ;  and  so  she  let  the  second  gong 
sound,  and  after  five  minutes'  law  came  sailing  resolutely 
into  the  room,  "  all  eyes,  mouth,  and  black  velvet,"  as  the 
Vicar — who  was  there — described  her  to  his  wife. 

Sir  Robert  was  not  there.  She  chafed  at  this  new  pro- 
longation of  her  misery,  but  she  was  calm,  cool,  and  po- 
lite. There  was  another  fifteen  hours  of  anxiety  before 
her.  The  Vicar,  who  knew  everything,  says  that  she  be- 
haved with  the  courage  of  a  lion.  Her  father  hardly  spoke 
to  her,  and  the  weary  evening  wore  through,  the  Vicar 
staying  long  and  late,  doing  his  duty  like  a  man. 

The  next  morning  she  knew  her  fate.  She  slept  long 
and  heavily,  as  the  men  who  are  to  be  hung  at  eight  gen- 
erally sleep — a  forgetful,  dreamless,  Sancho-Panza  sleep. 
At  ten  o'clock  she  was  in  the  breakfast-room  alone,  try- 
ing to  read  "  Adam  Bede,"  when  she  heard  the  hall-door 
opened,  and  the  footsteps  of  two  people  crossing  the  flags 
straight  towards  the  room  where  she  sat. 

The  butler  threw  open  the  door  and  said,  "  Sir  Robert 
Poyntz,  Miss  "  —  and  then  shut  it  again,  which  was  the 
best  thing  he  could  do ;  and  although  he  had  been  bribed 
for  doing  so  very  heavily,  he  did  it  well.  She  was  alone  in 
the  room  with  him. 

She  ought  to  have  risen  to  receive  him,  but  the  thing  was 

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sudden ;  and  she  felt  faint  and  ill,  as  women  do  some- 
times. She  half  turned  her  head  towards  him,  bowed,  and 
said,  "  My  father  is  in  the  library." 

"  I  did  not  come  to  see  your  father,"  he  said ;  "  I  came 
to  see  you.  I  have  bribed  all  your  father's  servants  to 
watch  you,  that  I  might  catch  you  alone  ;  and  I  have  suc- 
ceeded." 

It  was  partly  the  sound  of  the  voice,  and  partly  an  in- 
definite feeling  of  anger,  that  made  her  rise  and  look  at 
him.  She  saw  before  her  the  most  magnificent  man  she 
had  ever  seen — a  man  of  extraordinary  beauty,  with  a  high, 
square,  resolute  forehead — a  man  so  young  that  the  golden 
beard  which  was  beginning  to  mantle  his  cheeks  and  his 
chin  had  no  shadows  in  it  as  yet ;  you  could  still  see  be- 
neath the  golden  haze  that  his  beautiful  mouth  was  parted 
in  eagerness,  curiosity,  and  admiration. 

Why  did  she  put  her  hands  before  her  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  sight  of  him  ?  Why  did  that  quaint  little  sound — half- 
moan,  half-cry — rise  from  her  overloaded  heart?  And 
why  did  her  lips  begin  to  murmur  a  prayer  of  thanksgiv- 
ing ?  Questions  easily  answered.  This  detestable  Sir  Rob- 
ert Poyntz — this  inexorable  creditor — the  man  who  held 
them  all  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  who  stood  before 
her  in  all  the  promise  of  a  noble  manhood — this  man  was 
the  only  man  she  had  ever  loved,  and  for  whose  love  she 
had  suffered  so  much.  It  was  Hammersley  himself,  risen 
from  the  dead,  with  the  wild  lurid  light  of  his  Indian  glory 
still  blazing  in  his  eyes. 


Chapter  XLIV 

HE  spoke  first.  "  I  have  done  as  you  bid  me,"  he  said  ; 
"  and  I  have  come  back  to  ask  you  if  I  have  done  it  amiss." 

She  had  no  answer  ready.  The  poor  girl  was  so  utterly 
undone  by  her  last  day's  misery,  and  so  deeply  happy  and 

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thankful  at  the  discovery  that  the  terrible  Sir  Robert  was  no 
worse  a  person  than  the  one  she  loved  best  in  the  world, 
that  she  had  no  answer  for  him,  and  could  make  no  fight. 
She  was,  or  ought  to  have  been,  very  angry ;  she  had  a 
hundred  things  to  say  to  him.  But  she  was  taken  by  sur- 
prise— was  like  one  awakening  from  a  horrible  dream,  to 
find  himself  in  the  world  once  more ;  and  she  had  nothing 
at  all  ready.  She  should  have  made  her  fight  at  once,  no 
doubt,  but  for  these  reasons  she  could  not.  It  simplified 
matters  immensely. 

It  gave  him  hope.  He  saw  that  his  wild  dream  was  like 
to  come  true — nay,  would  certainly  come  true  if  he  could 
only  help  speaking  too  fast  (which  he  could  not :  a  man 
just  come  out  of  such  a  wild  dark  hurly-burly  as  the  Indian 
Mutiny  could  not  be  expected  to  be  so  very  cool).  From 
the  moment  he  saw  her  sit  silent,  after  her  recognition  of 
him,  he  began  to  be  certain  of  her.  He  knew  she  loved 
him  once,  but  he  did  not  know  what  had  happened  since. 
He  would  have  been  less  eager — would  have  let  matters 
take  their  course  for  a  much  longer  time — if  it  had  not 
been  for  Laura's  emotion  at  seeing  him  again.  That  made 
him  push  on  fiercely,  and  forget  all  his  worldly-wise  reso- 
lutions. He  saw  that  affairs  were  as  he  left  them  ;  but  he 
was  far  too  wise  to  claim  any  acknowledgment  of  love  from 
her.  He  did  not  know  all.  He  little  thought  for  whom 
she  was  prepared,  and  for  what  she  was  prepared. 

"  I  have  come  back  again,  Miss  Seckerton,  to  know 
whether  I  have  done  enough  to  gain  your  respect."  Some 
sudden  impulse  or  instinct  showed  him  that  he  must 
change  his  tone  before  her  tears  were  dried,  and  he  knelt 
at  her  feet  and  said,  "  Laura !  Laura  !  you  loved  me  once  ; 
do  you  love  me  still  ?  " 

She  found  her  voice  :  "  Yes !  yes  !  But  why  have  you  all 
used  me  so  cruelly  ?  " 

***** 

When  they  had  done  being  sentimental — which  was  very 
soon,  seeing  that  a  great  deal  of  sentiment  had  been 

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knocked  out  of  both  of  them  in  a  somewhat  rough  school 
— they  returned  to  common-sense,  of  which  both  had  a 
considerable  stock.  He  began  by  asking  her  what  she 
meant  by  her  having  been  used  cruelly. 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  she  said.  "  Once  and  for  all, 
tell  me  how  all  this  has  happened  ?  You  have  surprised 
me  into  an  admission  by  the  suddenness  of  your  appear- 
ance ;  it  is  only  due  to  me  to  explain  your  incomprehen- 
sible conduct.  Let  what  T  have  undergone  through  that 
conduct  pass  for  a  time  ;  I  only  ask  you  to  explain." 

He  did  so,  of  course — partly  in  narrative,  and  partly  by 
question  and  answer.  I  must  be  allowed  to  shape  his  story 
for  him,  only  giving  Laura's  remarks  when  they  are  at  all 
illustrative : 

"  You  have  heard  of  my  father,  and  I  wish  to  say  little 
about  him.  He  has,  I  fear,  not  left  a  good  name  in  this 
part  of  the  world." 

"  We  need  not  begin  so  early,"  said  Laura.  "  I  have 
heard  a  great  deal  about  your  father." 

"  You  must  not  believe  all  you  have  heard.  He  had 
very  good  qualities  ;  I  cannot  bear  to  hear  my  father  ill- 
spoken  of.  There  were  many  worse  men  than  my  father. 
In  time  I  will  make  you  know  my  father  as  he  really  was  ; 
you  have  only  heard  the  worst  side  of  him  yet.  He  was  a 
very  clever  man,  and  very  pious  latterly.  As  for  his  riding 
— I  think  there  would  be  only  one  opinion  about  that." 

Laura  loved  him  the  better  for  his  silly  breakdown  in 
trying  to  whitewash  the  memory  of  that  most  miserable  old 
sinner  his  father,  but  she  would  not  help  him  out.  She  had 
admitted  more  than  she  meant  to  already  ;  she  sat  silent. 

"  But  that  is  beside  the  mark,  possibly,"  said  Sir  Robert. 
"  Friends  of  the  family,  whose  judgment  I  would  be  the 
last  to  impugn,  but  whose  advice  was  certainly  never 
asked,  were  of  opinion  that  his  establishment  was  not  on 
the  whole  calculated  to  raise  the  moral  tone  of  such  an 
exceedingly  ill-conditioned  and  turbulent  boy  as  myself. 
Now,  I  look  on  this  as  being  an  exceedingly  fine  point  in 

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my  father's  character ;  and  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with 
me  about  this.  Although  my  father  had  never  asked  these 
people's  advice,  yet  he  yielded  to  it.  Their  advice  was 
forced  on  him  in  the  most  offensive  way.  Tom  Squire 
(you  know  him)  was  in  the  room  when  it  was  forced  on 
him,  in  the  most  eminently  offensive  way,  by  Sir  Peckwich 
Downes  and  someone  else — never  mind  who.  They  said, 
'  You  are  a  most  disreputable  and  wicked  old  man  ;  and 
you  are  lost  to  all  sense  of  decency  if  you  bring  those  boys 
here.'  That's  what  they  said  to  him ;  and  see  how 
nobly  my  father  behaved  !  He  took  their  advice,  at  least 
as  far  as  concerned  myself.  He  used  to  have  poor  Harry 
down,  as  you  know  yourself,  having  met  him  here." 

"  Never  mind  your  father,"  she  said. 

"  But  I  do  mind  my  father.  My  father  is  an  ill-under- 
stood man.  What  are  the  accusations  against  him  ?  That 
he  used  to  drink,  and  have  in  the  servants  to  drink  with 
him.  And  Harry,  poor  fellow,  used  to  deny  it  in  the 
strongest  terms.  No  servant  ever  sat  down  before  my 
father  except  old  Tom  Squire,  whose  mother  was  our 
nurse.  Who  is  your  Downes,  that  he  is  to  dictate  to  a 
man  in  his  own  house  ?  " 

Laura  didn't  know. 

"  He  had  Harry  down.  Who  is  your  Downes,  that  he 
is  to  part  a  father  from  his  eldest  son  ?  Me  he  never  had 
down.  One  of  the  best  points  in  my  father's  character, 
one  that  showed  his  knowledge  of  human  nature  best, 
was  that  he  couldn't  bear  the  sight  of  me." 

Laura  burst  out  laughing,  but  she  had  to  stop  it  again, 
lest  she  should  get  hysterical ;  recent  events  had  been  too 
much  for  her. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  continued  he.  "  I  was  one  of  the 
most  turbulent,  ill-conditioned  young  rascals  that  ever 
lived.  The  whole  aim  and  object  of  my  life,  till  six 
months  ago,  seems  to  me  to  have  been  quarrelling  with 
my  own  brother.  Laura,  I  never  hated  him  ;  but  his 
better  and  higher  and  gentler  nature  irritated  me." 

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Laura  gave  a  start.  Had  she  given  her  heart  to  an  ab- 
solute fool  ? 

"  I  never  saw  this,"  he  continued,  without  having  no- 
ticed her  start,  "  until  six  months  ago.  I  did  something  in 
India,  no  matter  what ;  they  have  given  me  the  Victoria 
Cross  for  it,  so  it  counts  for  something  ;  and  that  dear 
fellow  who  lies  dead  across  the  river  wrote  me  the  kindest 
and  tenderest  letter  that  ever  one  brother  received  from  an- 
other— a  letter  written  to  me,  who  had  never  done  any- 
thing but  vilify  and  backbite  him  !  " 

"  About  this  letter  ?  "  said  Laura.  "  Attend,  please. 
Did  he  never  vilify  and  backbite  you  ?  " 

"  Harry  had  an  infirmity,"  said  Sir  Robert.  "  From 
childhood  Harry  was  very  acute  about  money-matters,  but 
I  never  held  Harry  accountable.  He  had  an  infirmity — 
his  brain  softened,  you  know — he  used  to  forget  what  he 
said  last.  It  might  happen  to  you  or  I  to-morrow,  you 
know." 

"  About  this  letter  once  more,"  said  Laura ;  "  did  he 
say  anything  about  me  in  it?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  Did  he  ever  mention  me  to  you  in  any  of  his  let- 
ters ?  " 

"  Never !  I  never  had  but  one.  He  never  said  one 
word  to  me  about  you.  Now  I  will  go  on  with  my  story. 

"  My  father,  you  must  know,  for  some  reason  of  his 
own — I  think  because  he  never  liked  me — left  me  entirely 
dependent  on  Harry,  who  I  always  thought  liked  me  still 
less  than  my  father  did.  Now,  the  most  unfortunate  thing 
was  that  Harry  and  I  never  got  on  together.  My  excuse 
for  this  is  that  Harry  would  be  master,  and  I  would  never 
submit.  I  was  sent  to  Eton  to  be  out  of  his  way,  and  kept 
from  home.  As  we  grew  up  we  got  on  worse  and  worse, 
and  at  eighteen  I  found  myself  left  in  the  world — free  cer- 
tainly, but  entirely  dependent  on  Harry. 

"  My  father  left  me  no  guardians  ;  I  was  entirely  in 
Harry's  hands.  And  now  I  must  allude  to  another  in- 

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firmity  of  the  poor  fellow's — I  must,  in  justification :  he 
had  such  a  terrible  tongue  !  " 

"  Ah  !  well  I  know  it,"  said  Laura. 

"  He  used  to  say  such  horrible  things,  and  then  laugh  at 
them,  that  he  drove  you  almost  mad.  I  have  heard  him 
use  his  tongue  so  to  that  poor  creature  Wheaton — who, 
by-the-bye,  must  be  provided  for  —  that  I  wonder  he 
never  murdered  him.  He  soon  gave  up  this  habit  to  me, 
at  all  events,  as  a  general  rule.  But  it  would  come  back 
to  him  ;  he  couldn't  help  it.  When  we  were  boys  I  used 
to  thrash  him  for  it.  But  when  we  got  too  old  for  that,  his 
fear  of  me  left  him,  and  he  was  pretty  near  as  bad  as  ever. 
After  our  father's  death  he  told  me,  with  a  stinging  insult, 
that  he  would  allow  me  three-hundred  a-year — that  I 
might  go  anywhere,  and  do  anything.  I  thought  this  a 
somewhat  grand  revenue,  and  went  to  London  an  inde- 
pendent gentleman. 

"  What  did  I  do  there  ? — Why,  I  went  there  with  three- 
hundred  a-year,  and  spent  nine-hundred.  How  did  I 
spend  it  ? — In  muddle.  You  know  how  our  family  vacil- 
lated between  extravagance  and  stinginess,  often  in  the 
same  individual.  Well,  I  was  in  the  economical  mood 
when  I  went  to  London,  and  I  apportioned  out  my  in- 
come carefully — so  much  for  my  rooms  and  living,  so 
much  for  my  horse  and  groom,  and  so  on ;  and  I  left  a 
margin  of  5o/.  a-year  for  contingencies.  At  the  end  of  the 
year  I  was  six  hundred  pounds  in  debt.  I  struggled  and 
floundered  on  until  I  made  it  up  to  a  clear  thousand,  and 
then  I  wrote  and  told  my  brother.  He  was  furious  :  he 
paid  it,  but  stopped  my  allowance,  formally  renounced  me, 
and  left  me  to  shift  for  myself  with  a  hundred  pounds. 

"  I  had  been  living  a  very  pleasant  life  in  London. 
Many  of  my  Eton  friends  had  not  gone  to  the  University 
— more  than  one  of  them  was  in  the  Guards.  Their  fam- 
ilies received  me  very  kindly — most  of  them  from  mere 
goodwill,  but  some  because  they  foresaw  what  has  actu- 
ally happened — that  Harry  would  die  without  a  family, 

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and  that  I  should  be  rich.  So,  boy  as  I  was,  I  was  not 
merely  had  out  for  my  dancing,  which  is  admirable,  but  as 
a  lad  whom  it  was  worth  while  to  have  one's  eye  on.  I 
have  been  very  civilly  bespoke,  do  you  know,  by  very 
great  people  indeed  —  political  people,  I  mean.  Harry 
seemed  to  me  always  to  be  a  known  man,  I  cannot  tell 
why  or  how  ;  it  is  a  puzzle  to  me.  Whether  it  was  his 
tongue,  which  he  could  use  in  one  case  like  a  delicate 
poniard,  and  in  another  (when  among  his  dependents  and 
relatives)  a  brutal  cudgel ;  whether  it  was  his  credit  as  a 
pushing  unscrupulous  man,  who  must  rise  in  spite  of  a 
reputation  even  then  damaged ;  or  what  it  was,  I  cannot 
tell.  There  was  something  odd  about  Harry  which  made 
him  a  well-known  man.  I  have,  in  the  corners  of  draw- 
ing-rooms, and  on  staircases,  among  the  men,  heard  him 
called  every  name  under  the  sun.  What  puzzled  me  was 
that  he  should  be  so  known,  so  talked  about,  and — what 
seemed  to  me  stranger  still — so  feared." 

"  Did  you  never  speak  up  for  your  brother  ?  "  asked 
Laura. 

"  No  ;  it  was  impossible.  Harry  had  earned  his  repu- 
tation, and  he  had  it.  I  have  not  learned  to  lie  yet." 

"  This  fits  well  with  your  extravagant  praise  of  him  ten 
minutes  ago.  I  thought  that  he  was  the  saint  then,  and 
you  the  sinner." 

Sir  Robert  laughed  aloud,  and  did  not  stop  quickly ; 
and  as  poor  Laura  found  that  she  could  laugh  now  with- 
out crying,  she  joined  in.  They  should  not  have  laughed, 
you  think,  so  soon  after  poor  Sir  Harry  was  dead.  Well, 
they  did  :  most  of  us  have  laughed  between  a  death  and  a 
funeral. 

Sir  Robert  went  on  :  "  I  never  made  him  out  a  saint, 
save  by  contrasting  him  with  my  own  wicked  self." 

"  You  are  coming  to  your  confessions,  then.  Pray,  did 
you  ever  meet  poor  Harry  in  society  ?  " 

"  Never  but  once.  I  was  only  in  society  part  of  one 
season,  and  all  that  time  he  was  getting  the  family  affairs 


Leighton  Court 

together.  Near  the  end  of  my  only  season  I  was  at  a  ball 
at  Tulligoram  House,  and  was  attending  to  poor  old  Mrs. 
Smallwood.  I  had  got  her  an  ice,  and  was  talking  to  her. 
The  crowd  was  very  close,  and  I  noticed  that  she  was 
back  to  back,  at  very  close  quarters,  with  Gordon  Dunbar, 
a  six-foot  guardsman.  His  back  was  towards  hers,  and 
he  pushed  her  so  close  to  me  that  she  had  to  eat  her  ice 
under  my  nose ;  for  the  Righter  of  all  Wrongs  and  the 
Poet  of  the  Domestic  Affections  were  backing  me  up  from 
the  other  side.  All  would  have  gone  well  had  not  the  big 
guardsman  who  was  backing  up  Mrs.  Smallwood  been  in- 
troduced to  someone.  He  made  such  a  low  bow,  that  he 
shot  Mrs.  Smallwood  on  to  me  headforemost,  and  me  on 
to  the  Righter  of  Wrongs,  who  from  his  physical  and 
moral  elevation  apologised.  When  I  had  finished  blush- 
ing, and  had  got  her  right,  I  looked  Gordon-Dunbar  way 
again.  It  was  my  brother  he  had  been  introduced  to ; 
and  my  brother  was  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  look- 
ing at  Gordon  Dunbar :  perfectly  dressed,  perfectly  at 
ease,  looking  at  the  guardsman,  with  an  expression  on  his 
pale  puffed  face,  and  his  shallow  blue  eye,  which  said 
plainly, '  Now  what  \s_your  metier?  How  much  are  you 
worth  ? ' " 

"  Did  they  speak  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  they  spoke  to  him  ;  but  they  seemed  to  look 
on  him  as  some  dreadful  curiosity.  Do  you  know,  he  did 
look  very  curious.  His  dress,  to  begin  with  :  it  was  only 
black  and  white,  of  course.  I  can  dress  myself  as  well  as 
any  man  alive ;  but  he  could  beat  me.  I  dealt  with  the 
same  tailor  (who,  by-the-bye,  must  be  paid),  but  I  never 
could  wear  my  clothes  as  he  did.  You  know  the  story 
about  '  Good  heavens,  sir,  walking  trousers  !  Why,  you 
have  been  sitting  down  in  them.'  It  illustrates  what  I 
mean — Harry  wore  his  clothes  marvellously  well.  And 
add  to  this,  he  had  a  calm  look  with  him,  not  a  stare, 
which  did  wonders.  When  anyone  spoke  he,  by  some 
twist  in  his  neck,  some  turn  in  his  eye,  gave  all  present 

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the  idea  that  this  fellow  might  be  worth  listening  to  or 
might  not,  and  then,  with  a  quiet  but  very  slight  turn-up 
of  the  chin,  decided  in  the  negative.  I  tell  you,  Laura, 
solemnly,  that  no  angel  in  heaven  has  the  temper  which 
would  have  borne  with  him.  The  unutterable  exaspera- 
tion which  he  was  capable  of " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  said  Laura,  "  we  must  forget  that. 
Did  he  speak  this  time  you  met  him  ?  " 

"  Yes — to  Gordon  Dunbar,  in  his  usual  style.  I  never 
would  have  dared  to  say  what  he  said  :  '  You  have  made 
a  great  mess  of  it  in  the  Crimea.  You  have  let  the  French 
beat  us  at  all  points.  We  seem  to  have  as  much  pluck  as 
they,  but  we  want  the  brains — at  least,  I  mean  our  army 
seems  to  want  brains.  Our  system  is  wrong  altogether. 
No  man  enters  the  Army,  either  as  officer  or  private,  who 
has  the  chance  of  a  career  elsewhere.'  " 

"  Did  he  dare  say  that  ?  " 

"He  dare  say  anything." 

"  Did  Gordon  Dunbar  strike  him  down  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he  is  a  gentleman.  And  he  carried  in  his  own 
person  such  a  refutation  of  Harry's  nonsense,  that  every- 
one laughed.  Dunbar  only  bowed,  and  withdrew  from 
the  discussion." 

"  Did  poor  Harry  say  anything  to  you  ?  " 

"  To  me  ?  No.  But  he  behaved  so  queerly.  He 
looked  me  perfectly  straight  in  the  face,  and  then  began 
talking  to  Mrs.  Smallwood,  with  his  face  almost  touching 
mine,  about  me.  He  gave  her  my  character,  speaking  of 
me  as  '  my  brother  here,'  but  not  addressing  himself  per- 
sonally to  me,  or  even  after  the  first  look  glancing  my 
way.  He  told  her  (this  was  to  my  face,  mind !)  that  I 
was  idle,  extravagant,  and,  he  feared,  deceitful ;  but  that 
I  was  generous  and  brave,  and  that  (so  he  said — don't 
laugh)  my  extraordinary  personal  beauty  would  make  me 
friends  everywhere,  and  that  he  hoped  those  friends 
would  not  find  themselves  deceived.  And  then  he  walked 
on." 


Leighton  Court 

"  Poor  Harry  was  mad,  you  know,"  said  Laura.  "  No 
sane  man  ever  acted  or  spoke  like  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  what  he  said  about  my  personal  appear- 
ance ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  shall  I  go  on  with  my  story  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  I  want  to  hear,  sir,  what  you  did  when 
you  were  left  in  London  with  your  debts  paid  and  one 
hundred  pounds  to  spend." 

"  I  say,  by-the-bye,"  said  Sir  Robert,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "  do  you  know,  Laura,  that  I  have  been  with  you 
tete-a-t$te  an  hour  and  a  half  ?  I  must  go  to  your  father." 

"  And  leave  the  story  of  Cambuscan  half  untold  :  is  this 
what  you  call  an  explanation  of  your  extraordinary  con- 
duct ?  " 

"  No ;  you  shall  have  it.  You  can  surely  trust  me.  But 
let  me  go  to  your  father.  Laura,  you  shall  have  every 
word ;  but  there  is  a  dark  passage  or  two  to  come.  Let 
there  be  no  cloud  over  to-day's  sun." 


Chapter  XLV 

THEY  say  that  a  large  proportion  (I  am  sure  it  is  one- 
third,  and  think  it  is  more)  of  all  the  folks  who  go  mad,  are 
driven  so  by  long-continued  anxiety  about  their  pecuniary 
affairs.  Whether  Sir  Charles  Seckerton  would  ever  have 
gone  mad  I  cannot  say :  we  know  that  his  relief  had  come, 
but  he  as  little  dreamt  of  it  as  he  deserved  it. 

There  seldom  has  lived  a  man  with  a  sweeter  disposition 
than  had  he.  His  careless,  generous,  laissez-aller  temper 
had  been  one  cause,  though  only  one,  of  his  ruin.  But  it 
was  a  very  sweet  temper.  No  one  had  ever  seen  the  dark 
side  of  it  but  Laura ;  and  she  only  once,  for  a  minute,  on 
the  occasion  when  he  proposed  to  her  a  marriage  with  Sir 
Robert  Poyntz,  and  she  resented  it.  Sir  Charles'  character 
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among  men  was  that  of  a  perfectly  determined  person, 
thoroughly  trustworthy,  sensible,  and  decided — as  well  able 
to  manage  his  own  affairs  as  any  man  in  the  County.  The 
truth  never  leaked  out — circumstances  saved  that.  Tell 
any  man  in  that  part  of  the  County  at  this  day,  that  Sir 
Charles  had  been  recklessly  extravagant,  and  had  only 
saved  his  position  in  the  world  by  a  scandalous  sale  of  his 
own  daughter ;  and  tell  them,  again,  that  the  beautiful 
glorious  Lady  Poyntz  was  at  one  time  hunted  and  driven 
into  such  a  state  of  desperation  as  to  acquiesce  in  the  ar- 
rangement— tell  them  this,  and  they  will  laugh  at  you. 
But  so  it  was. 

Sir  Charles'  temper  had  lasted  till  this  very  day,  and  this 
very  day  it  had  given  way.  He  had  borne  the  misery  and 
anxiety  of  debt,  with  a  tolerably  certain  prospect  of  ruin, 
well  enough.  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  gone 
to  Baden  most  decently,  had  it  not  been  for  that  irre- 
pressible Sir  Harry  Poyntz,  who  showed  him  how  he  could 
retrieve  everything,  or  at  least  keep  the  whole  thing  in  the 
family,  by  the  marriage  of  Laura  and  Robert.  His  fate 
was  in  his  daughter's  hands.  The  first  symptom  of  temper 
he  had  ever  shown  was  when  she  rejected  his  hint  about 
that  matter  with  scorn.  She  had  seemed  to  agree  on  that 
occasion,  but  had  said  not  one  word  this  last  two  days  on 
the  subject.  He  could  not  tell  for  certain  what  she  would 
do ;  if  she  rejected  him  there  was  ruin  ;  if  she  accepted  him 
all  would  be  well,  in  a  sort  of  way ;  but  he  could  not  trust 
her.  He  had  seen  her  obstinate  as  a  child,  and  since  ;  he 
had  seen  her  show  fight  to  more  than  one  person  ;  suppose 
she  were  to  do  so  now  ?  Ruin  ! 

He  had  not  recognised  Sir  Robert,  to  that  young  gentle- 
man's vast  amusement.  He  had  "  seen  the  likeness,"  but 
nothing  more.  Tom  Squire,  the  huntsman,  had  come  up 
to  him  this  very  morning,  and  Sir  Charles  had  mentioned 
the  likeness  to  him:  adding,  to  poor  old  Tom's  puzzle- 
ment, that  poor  Hammersley  was  the  better-looking  fellow 
of  the  two.  Tom  had  been  set  on  by  Sir  Robert,  and  told 

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poor  Sir  Charles,  with  many  exaggerations,  the  passages 
he  had  seen  between  Laura  and  Hammersley.  Tom 
couldn't  make  out,  for  the  life  of  him,  what  Sir  Charles 
knew  and  what  he  didn't.  He  played  his  part  faithfully, 
and  left  him. 

Sir  Charles  knew  that  Robert  was  coming  this  morning, 
and  he  was  deeply  anxious  to  know  how  Laura  would  re- 
ceive him.  He  determined  to  make  one  more  last  appeal 
to  her.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what  she  meant 
to  do.  For  two  days  she  had  kept  silence,  but  she  had 
worn  a  hunted  desperate  look,  which  gave  him  infinite  dis- 
quiet in  every  way.  He  could  see  plainly  that  she  had 
made  some  resolution,  but  what  was  it  ?  Did  she  mean 
to  acquiesce  in  the  arrangement,  or  had  she  determined  to 
lay  the  whole  matter  before  Sir  Robert  Poyntz  ?  I  don't 
know  what  put  that  last  idea  into  his  head,  but  it  was  there, 
and  would  not  go  away.  It  got  stronger  as  the  two  days 
went  on — got  so  strong  now  that  it  seemed  a  certainty ; 
and  in  going  to  seek  for  Laura  he  felt  that  he  was  going 
to  hear  his  doom  from  her  lips. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Seckerton  ?  "  he  asked  of  a  servant  in 
the  hall. 

"  In  the  breakfast-room,  Sir  Charles.  Sir  Robert  Poyntz 
is  with  her." 

"  How  came  he  there  ?     Who  showed  him  in  ?  " 

"  Parker  (the  butler)  showed  him  in,  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  ago,"  said  the  guilty-looking  man,  turning  scarlet. 

"  Who  opened  the  door  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  did,  Sir  Charles." 

"  You  and  Parker  pack  out  of  this  house  in  an  hour ! 
How  much  did  Sir  Robert  give  you,  you  rascal  ?  " 

"  Only  two  sovereigns,  sir ;  upon  my  soul,  only  two 
sovereigns ! " 

"  Go  and  tell  Parker  to  be  out  of  the  house  in  an  hour — 
never  to  set  face  on  me  again  ;  I  shall  do  him  a  mischief  if 
he  does." 

And  so  he  was  too  late  !  And  Laura  was  alone  with  the 
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man — at  this  moment,  in  her  desperation,  betraying  her 
father's  cause  to  Sir  Robert.  What  was  actually  passing 
in  that  room  we  have  seen  already.  Meanwhile  Sir  Charles' 
temper  and  judgment  had  both  given  way,  under  the  long- 
continued  strain  of  anxiety ;  and  he  strode  towards  the 
drawing-room,  believing  himself  ruined,  to  announce  his 
ruin  to  his  wife  and  her  mother. 

They  were  sitting  in  their  usual  places — Lady  Emily 
writing  letters,  and  Lady  Southmolton,  having  just  finished 
her  devotional  reading  for  the  morning,  knitting.  The  dear 
old  lady  had  three  times  the  quickness  of  wit  of  her  daugh- 
ter. She  no  sooner  set  eyes  on  her  son-in-law's  face  than 
she  rolled  up  her  knitting,  stuck  the  pins  in  it,  put  it  aside 
on  the  Bible,  and  folding  her  hands,  said,  "  My  poor 
Charles — my  poor  dear  Charles  !  Come,  tell  us  all  about 
it  quietly ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

At  these  words  Lady  Emily  looked  up,  and  when  she 
saw  her  husband's  ghastly  terrible  face  she  began  to  cry. 
All  the  training  in  the  world  would  never  make  that  fat 
silly  body  into  a  heroine,  like  her  mother.  She  was  almost 
entirely  in  a  state  of  useless  collapse  in  the  conversation 
which  followed. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  two  some  questions,  and  to  tell  you 
some  news.  First,  I  want  to  ask  you  this  :  Had  either  of 
you  any  idea  that  Laura  became  attached  to  that  unfortu- 
nate young  gentleman  Poyntz-Hammersley,  whom  I,  like 
a  ruined  old  lunatic  as  I  am,  admitted  into  familiarity  ?  " 

The  old  lady  did  not  answer  Sir  Charles  at  once.  She 
addressed  herself  to  her  daughter,  who,  as  her  experienced 
eye  showed  her,  was  making  every  possible  preparation  for 
making  a  fool  of  herself,  and  was  very  nearly  ready  to 
begin  the  performance.  She  said  :  "  Emily,  my  love,  there 
is  nothing  like  the  most  perfect  calmness  in  family  affairs 
of  this  kind.  If  you  do  not  find  yourself  equal  to  being 
calm,  I  shall  use  such  influence  as  I  possess  as  a  mother 
to  persuade  you  to  leave  the  room." 

Lady  Emily  went  no  further  with  her  preparations.  She 
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merely,  forgetting  that  weight  had  come  with  years,  cast 
herself  into  an  easy-chair,  which  creaked,  but  bore  up 
nobly,  and  bided  her  time.  A  little  bird  tells  me  that  at 
this  time,  feeling  safe  under  the  guidance  of  that  noble  old 
generalissimo  her  mother,  her  face  assumed  an  expression 
of  the  most  intense  curiosity ;  but  this  is  merely  hearsay 
tittle-tattle. 

The  old  lady  turned  then  to  her  son-in-law,  and  said  : 
"  My  dearest  Charles,  you  take  us  utterly  by  surprise. 
That  sort  of  thing  has  happened,  I  know,  and  will  probably 
happen  again  ;  but  with  regard  to  our  Laura,  I  won't  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it." 

"  Why  was  the  match  broken  off  between  Laura  and 
Hatterleigh  ?  Had  this  anything  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Laura  broke  off  the  match.  Neither  of  them  have 
ever  deigned  any  explanations  ;  but  this  had  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  It  is  utterly  untrue  from  beginning  to  end.  May 
I  ask  what  grounds  you  have  for  such  a  monstrous  ques- 
tion ?  " 

"  You  are  very  good  to  me.  Why  don't  you  upbraid 
me  with  my  insensate  folly  for  allowing  them  to  ride  about 
together  ?  It  is  all  too  true  !  " 

"  Charles,  come  here  and  kiss  me."  (He  did  so.)  "  My 
poor  dear  boy,  who  has  been  putting  this  nonsense  into 
your  head  ?  Come,  tell  me." 

"  Squire." 

"  A  tipsy  old  goose  !  Let  us  dismiss  the  subject ;  it  is 
so  utterly  below  our  contempt.  What  on  earth  has  made 
you  bring  up  such  a  subject,  at  the  very  time  when  we  are 
all  so  anxious  that  matters  should  go  well  with  our  gallant 
young  friend  over  the  water  ?  " 

"  I  fear  it  is  terribly  true.  Now  let  me  ask  you,  what 
sort  of  mood  is  Laura  in  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Now  we  are  coming  to  common-sense,"  said  the  kind 
old  lady.  "  Why,  I  am  sorry  to  say  our  Laura  is  not  in 
one  of  her  best  moods — a  trifle  rebellious  against  our  de- 
signs for  her  happiness.  I  don't  suppose  for  an  instant 
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that  you  have  let  those  little  designs  of  ours  reach  her;  but 
they  have  reached  her,  and  she  is  in  a  mood.  She  must 
not  meet  that  man  at  present.  You  must  take  us  to  Lon- 
don, and  all  will  go  well.  Time  !  time  !  " 

Sir  Charles  leant  his  back  against  the  chimney-piece. 
"  I  have  told  her,"  he  said  quietly,  "  with  my  own  fool's 
lips,  all  those  little  designs  for  her  happiness  ;  and  he  has 
bribed  my  servants,  and  at  this  present  moment  is  closeted 
with  her  in  the  breakfast-room." 

Lady  Southmolton  lost  her  self-possession,  for  the  first 
and  only  time  in  that  part  of  her  history  which  we  have  to 
relate.  She  unfolded  her  two  white  hands,  and  spread 
them  abroad  before  her.  "  Then  I  can  only  say,"  she  said, 
in  a  tone  which  was  almost  shrill,  "  that  the  whole  thing  is 
off,  and  that  we  may  give  it  up  utterly  and  for  ever ! 
Laura  is  in  a  mood  this  morning  which  I  decline  to  de- 
scribe. She  has  turned  on  her  mother  and  on  me,  and  has 
denounced  us  for  selling  her  to  the  highest  bidder ;  has 
told  us  to  our  faces  that  if  there  was  such  a  thing  as  an 
Anglican  convent,  she  would  enter  it  to-morrow.  She  said 
that  all  which  prevented  her  entering  a  Papist  one  was, 
first  that  she  loathed  Popery,  and  secondly  that  there  was 
some  other  reason — in  short,  got  incoherent  in  her  anger. 
My  sweet  Charles,  it  was  a  good  scheme  enough  ;  but 
since  that  foolish  young  man  has  chosen  to  treat  her  as  he 
would  have  treated  a  girl  sent  out  to  India  to  marry  the  first 
man  she  could  catch,  the  whole  thing  is  over.  It  was  a 
pretty  scheme,  but  it  is  a  scheme  of  the  past.  Think  no 
more  about  it.  We  shall  do  well  enough  with  her  yet." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  Laura's  second  reason  for  not 
entering  a  convent  was  ?  "  asked  Sir  Charles. 

"  Not  the  slightest." 

"  I  can  tell  you.  Robert  Poyntz  is  my  creditor  for 
eighty  thousand  pounds.  He  can  '  annex  '  this  estate 
whenever  he  chooses.  Our  only  chance  of  pulling  through 
was  his  marriage  with  Laura." 

At  this  point  Lady  Emily  did  make  a  fool  of  herself.     I 
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don't  think  that  anything  would  be  gained  by  describing 
a  silly  woman  in  hysterics.  It  was  her  first  trial,  and  she 
broke  down  under  it.  I  only  wish  the  reader  to  under- 
stand that  she  did  it  thoroughly,  and  took  her  time  about  it. 

But  she  was  quiet  enough  at  last  to  let  the  conversation 
proceed.  Lady  Southmolton — who  had  risen  from  her 
chair,  and  had  helped  Sir  Charles  to  pacify  her — was  the 
first  to  resume  the  conversation.  She  took  her  old  atti- 
tude and  said,  with  her  kind  old  smile — 

"  Well,  my  dearest  Charles,  my  dear  friend  and  son  for 
so  many  years,  and  so  you  are  ruined  ?  " 

"  Utterly ! " 

"  Well,  son,  we  shall  have  to  go  to  Germany,  and  live 
on  my  money.  The  principal  thing  we  have  to  think  of  is 
where.  /  should  like  Brunswick ;  but  the  Duke  is  not 
married,  and  he  is  horribly  rich ;  and  it  is  not  cheap,  what- 
ever they  may  say.  Dresden,  dear,  is  very  pleasant  and 
gay,  but  it  is  horribly  cold  in  winter  ;  and  I  am  a  fanciful 
old  woman,  and  object  to  the  statues  of  August  der 
Stark — they  are  an  outrage  to  public  morality !  Hesse  is 
dull,  Ems  and  Wiesbaden  dissipated." 

"  But  is  there  no  hope  from  Laura  ?  "  asked  Sir  Charles. 

"  Not  the  least,"  she  answered.  •  She  is  in  one  of  her 
obstinate  moods.  I  don't  blame  your  family.  The  Seck- 
erton  blood,  my  dear  Charles,  never  shows  any  obstinacy. 
This  is  the  Sansmerci  blood,  which  I  have  unfortunately 
transmitted  to  your  family,  and  for  which  I  owe  you  all 
apologies.  She  is  behaving  to-day  so  exactly  like  South- 
molton's  father,  that  I  am  ashamed  to  look  you  in  the 
face.  She  has  not  certainly  put  the  red-hot  poker  in  the 
coalscuttle,  as  Lord  Southmolton  did  to  annoy  me,  the 
first  time  we  went  and  stayed  with  him  ;  but  she  shows  the 
blood.  It  is  all  my  fault,  Charles.  Come,  can't  I  make 

you  laugh ?  Well,  then,  listen  to  an  old  woman,  and 

let  us  return  to  the  subject  in  hand.  My  dearest  boy — 
Brussels " 

The  dear  old  lady's  quaint  consolations  came  to  an  end 

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here,  and   were  never  resumed  again.     The   butler — the 
proscribed  and  banished  Parker — threw  open  the  room- 
door,  and  announced 
"  Sir  Robert  Poyntz  !  " 


Chapter  XLVI 

SIR  CHARLES  was  still  standing  with  his  back  against 
the  chimney-piece  :  Lady  Emily  had  sunk  back  in  a  chair, 
and  the  old  lady  was  as  she  always  was.  Sir  Charles  ad- 
vanced with  empressement :  Lady  Emily  rose  and  bowed, 
but  was  in  terror  of  her  red  eyes.  The  only  one  of  the 
three  who  kept  their  presence  of  mind  was  the  old  lady. 
She  resumed  her  knitting  very  carefully,  and  said  :  "  Now, 
here  is  Sir  Robert  Poyntz,  for  instance.  If  he  has  his 
family's  manners,  he  will  back  an  old  woman  up  against 
both  of  you.  Don't  you  think  Brussels  the  most  charm- 
ing place  on  the  Continent,  sir  ?  You  have  never  been 
there — well,  you  may  admire  it  for  all  that.  I  have  never 
been  to  the  Mauritius  ;  but  I  admire  '  Paul  and  Virginia.'  " 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  Lady  Southmolton  ?  " 
said  Sir  Robert,  laughing ;  "  I  will  say  anything  you  wish." 

"  You  are  very  maladroit,  young  gentleman.  India  is 
a  good  school  of  arms ;  don't  force  me  to  say  that  it  is  a 
bad  school  of  manners.  You  should  have  known  what  I 
wanted  you  to  say ;  or,  failing  that,  should  never  have 
committed  such  ^.gaucherie  as  to  ask  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  the  young  fellow,  laughing ; 
"  but  something  has  happened  this  morning  which  has 
made  me  forget  the  few  manners  I  ever  had." 

"  We  can  see  that,  sir,"  said  Lady  Southmolton. 
"  None  of  your  Indian  manners  here,  sir !  Do  you  know, 
sir,  that  I  am  one  of  the  most  terrible  old  women  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  that  if  you  forfeit  my  good  word,  society  is 
closed  to  you,  sir  ?  You  are  behaving  with  the  most  un- 

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becoming  levity  in  my  most  awful  presence,  sir ;  what  do 
you  mean  by  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you,  Lady  Southmolton,"  said 
Sir  Robert ;  "  I  am  afraid  of  no  one  this  morning." 

The  kind  old  lady  looked  round,  to  see  if  any  more  of 
what  some  folks  call  "  chaff  "  was  necessary.  No  ;  the 
brave  old  lady  had  held  the  field  long  enough.  Sir  Charles 
and  Lady  Emily  were  both  perfectly  calm ;  but  as  she 
looked  round,  her  eye  lighted  on  the  face  of  Sir  Robert 
Poyntz.  She  said  at  once,  "  Come  here  to  me,  imme- 
diately ;  I  want  to  look  at  your  face." 

He  came,  and  knelt  before  her.  She  looked  into  his 
face  three  or  four  times,  but  she  was  baffled.  She  recog- 
nised his  wondrous  personal  beauty  in  a  moment ;  and 
she  saw  something  else  at  once  which  puzzled  her  ex- 
tremely— it  was  the  look  of  his  eyes.  She  knew  well 
enough  what  was  the  cause  of  that  tender  brilliance  in 
those  eyes.  The  man  was  a  successful  lover — she  could 
see  that  fast  enough.  And  the  man  had  just  been  closeted 
with  her  own  Laura,  with  a  previously-declared  intention 
of  making  love  to  that  imperially  obstinate  young  lady ; 
he  had  come  from  that  audience-chamber  with  that  flash 
in  his  eyes,  instead  of  looking  like  a  whipped  hound.  Had 
Laura  been  false  to  all  her  teaching  ?  Had  she  allowed 
this  man  to  be  successful  with  her  after  his  declared  inten- 
tion, on  the  very  first  interview,  instead  of  decently  fencing 
him  off,  for  weeks,  for  months,  to  save  appearances? 
Her  own  Laura  could  never  have  done  that — it  was  a 
monstrous  impossibility  !  Yet  there  was  that  light  in  the 
man's  eyes,  which  she  could  not  mistake ;  and  then  came, 
sudden  and  swift,  the  thought,  "  What  if  Laura  had  acted 
up  to  my  teaching — what  else  could  she  have  done  ?  "  If 
she  had  ruined  all  her  future  prospects  of  happiness  by  al- 
lowing herself  to  be  won  too  easily  by  this  man,  whom 
had  she,  poor  Laura,  to  thank  for  giving  herself  to  this 
enraptured  fool,  Sir  Robert  Poyntz  ?  No  one  but  Lady 
Southmolton  herself.  She  was  puzzled  and  frightened. 

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She  said,  "  Get  up,  sir,  and  tell  your  story — you  puzzle  me. 
I  am  an  old  woman.  Get  up,  and  explain  that  light  in 
your  eyes." 

He  rose  up,  and  turned  to  Sir  Charles  Seckerton.  "  My 
dear  Sir  Charles,"  he  said,  "  I  am  your  debtor  for  five 
hundred  pounds." 

"  It  pleases  you  to  say  so." 

"  I  owe  you  five  hundred  pounds  for  a  horse  of  yours, 
which  I  borrowed,  and  which  was  drowned.  I  mean 
'  The  Elk.'  Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
not  recognised  me  yet,  and  I  laughing  in  your  face  all 
yesterday?" 

"  Are  you  Hammersley  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Has  my  beard  altered  me  so  much 
then  ?  " 

Lady  Southmolton  cared  to  hear  no  more.  She  went 
on  with  her  work.  The  story  had  lost  its  interest  for  her, 
for  she  had  read  the  denouement  in  Sir  Robert's  eyes. 
Her  only  thought  was,  "  Can  I  get  these  three  to  hold 
their  tongues?  Everything  has  gone  well,  and  will  go 
well  if  they  will  only  talk  about  the  weather  and  the 
crops,  and  let  the  Laura  business  stand  over  for  a  month. 
This  man  must  have  made  it  safe  with  her,  when  he  was 
down  here  masquerading.  What  did  Lady  Herage  mean 
by  deceiving  us  so  shamefully  ?  And  to  think  of  the  mad- 
ness of  Charles  !  He  must  —  unless  he  is  blind,  unless 
he  had  got  utterly  idiotic  over  his  pecuniary  affairs — have 
seen  the  whole  of  this  going  on  under  his  own  nose,  at 
the  very  time  that  he  believed  this  young  gentleman  to  be 
penniless  and  illegitimate.  And  Laura !  This  accounts 
for  much,  however.  One  never  knows  these  girls.  I 
would  have  gone  bail  for  her  discretion — in  fact,  I  did  so 
not  ten  minutes  ago.  I  hope  to  goodness  there  will  be  no 
declaration  for  a  month :  we  can  defy  the  world  then  !  I 
wonder  how  far  she  went  with  him  ?  And  the  man  was 
drowned,  and  buried — at  least  had  a  stone  put  up  to  him, 
which  is  the  same  thing.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  being 

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utterly  puzzled :  but  I  am  now.  I  wonder  if  the  four  have 
trains  enough  among  them  to  avoid  any  sentimentalism 
[A-  a  month  ?  " 

They  had.  Sir  Charles  had  shown  his  wish  to  have  no 
farther  explanations  at  present,  by  testifying  the  most  elab- 
orate commonplace  surprise  and  pleasure  in  a  humorous 
manner.  Lady  Emily,  after  having  done  the  same  thing 
in  a  less  degree,  left  the  room  and  returned  with  Laura, 
who  was  formally  introduced  to  the  man  who  had  kissed 
her  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  as  an  utter  stranger. 
Laura!  Laura!  you  artful  young  lady,  you  carried  the 
farce  too  far,  when  you  looked  at  him  with  languid  curi- 
osity. You  overdid  your  part,  my  Lady  Poyntz ;  and 
very  nearly  caused  your  outraged  grandmother  to  forget 
her  manners  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  burst  out 
laughing. 

"  Will  you  walk,  my  dear  Sir  Robert  ?  "  asked  Sir 
Charles  ;  and  it  appeared  that  he  would.  They  went  out 
on  to  the  terrace  together,  and  then  Sir  Charles  said,  turn- 
ing suddenly  on  him — 

"  I  must  have  explanations,  Robert,  on  all  except  one 
point.  That  I  can't  allow  to  be  touched.  I — I  can't  ex- 
plain. Now  I  have  you  to  deal  with — Hammersley  to  deal 
with.  I — I  wont  explain.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you.  I  am 
Sir  Charles  Seckerton  of  Leighton  Court  once  more,  and 
you  are  little  Bob  Poyntz,  the  ill-tempered  boy.  I  won't 
explain  what  point  I  refer  to.  I  have  been  looking  at  your 
face,  and  I  am  puzzled.  I  know  how  you  bribed  my  ser- 
vants, and  where  you  have  been  :  on  that  point  I  will  not 
have  one  word  of  explanation." 

"  Not  for  worlds  !  "  said  Sir  Robert.  "  You  must  be 
very  angry  with  me.  I  have  served  you  very  badly.  We 
must  leave  that  point  quite  alone  at  present ;  then  we  can 
defy  the  world  !  Are  you  very  angry  with  me,  sir  ?  Can 
you  ever  forgive  me  ?  " 

"  One  will  try  to  forgive  a  man  to  whom  one  owes  as 
much  as  eighty  thousand  pounds." 

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"  So  much  as  that !  Then  I  must  take  the  hounds  from 

you  as  soon  as What  am  I  talking  about  ?  I  was 

trespassing  on  forbidden  ground.  Dear  Sir  Charles,  what 
explanations  do  you  want  ?  " 

Sir  Charles  wanted  to  know  his  history,  and  how  he  had 
come  here. 

Poyntz  told  him  the  same  story  he  had  told  Laura,  up 
to  the  point  where  he  was  left  nearly  penniless  in  Lon- 
don. 

"  And  what  did  you  do  then,  sir  ?  "  said  Sir  Charles, 
severely.  "  I  must  have  everything  explained  ;  my  position 
demands  it." 

Poyntz  looked  once  at  the  old  man,  and  did  not  know 
whether  to  be  pained  or  pleased.  He  knew  the  awful 
strait  that  Sir  Charles  was  in ;  and  he  did  not  know 
whether  to  be  pained  or  pleased  at  this  fresh  self-assertion 
on  the  part  of  the  poor  old  gentleman,  the  very  first  mo- 
ment he  felt  himself  safe.  Knowing  everything,  he  was  a 
little  pained,  on  the  whole.  Knowing  everything,  he  could 
not  help  wishing  that  this  extravagant  and  somewhat  self- 
ish old  gentleman  had  tried,  after  the  terrible  lesson  he 
had  had,  to  develop  himself  into  something  better  and 
newer,  instead  of  trying  to  reassert  himself  back  into  his 
old  position.  As  the  day  went  on,  Sir  Robert  Poyntz 
wished  this  more  and  more,  as  Sir  Charles  grew  more  and 
more  stilted  and  pompous ;  but,  shrewd  as  he  was,  he  did 
not  know  everything.  Sir  Charles'  self-assertion  for  the 
next  week  was  only  what  vulgar  people  call  "  company 
manners."  It  was  the  height  of  discretion.  Things  had 
to  be  hushed  up,  and  among  them  all  they  hushed  up  the 
matter  most  perfectly — the  proof  of  which  is  that  no  one 
but  you  and  I  know  the  real  truth  of  it.  The  Downes 
faction  don't  know  the  truth  yet.  "  He  vowed  he  would 
win  her.  He  came  down  disguised,  disclosed  himself  to 
her  father  and  mother,  and  won  her  affections.  He  fled  to 
India  to  avoid  his  creditors."  That  is  Constance  Duchess 
of  Pozzi  d'Oro's  story  to  this  day. 

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Leighton  Court 

Poyntz  said,  while  walking  on  the  terrace,  "  You  ask 
me  for  explanations  about  my  life  after  I  was  left  desti- 
tute ?  You  have  no  right  to  do  so  now.  Do  you  under- 
stand that  ?  " 

"  Most  perfectly,  Robert — most  perfectly." 

"  But  in  a  week  or  so  you  will  have  the  right.  Do  you 
understand  that  also  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sir  Charles.  "  Don't  you  see,  my  dear  boy, 
that,  under  present  circumstances,  I  mustn't  understand 
that?  Your  good  sense  will  show  you  that  I  am  Sir 
Charles  Seckerton  and  you  are  Sir  Robert  Poyntz  for  the 
next  three  weeks,  or,  if  the  women  don't  object,  say  a  fort- 
night. Before  a  fortnight  has  passed  I  couldn't  outrage 
the  County  by  understanding  anything  of  the  kind." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Sir  Robert,  with  a  laugh  in  his  eyes, 
which  would  have  been  visible  in  his  mouth  also  had  it 
not  been  clouded  with  his  golden  beard,  "  will  you  receive 
my  explanations  as  a  dear  old  friend  of  our  family  ?  " 

"  No,  Robert.  I  demanded  them  as  my  right  in  my 
position  as  chief  man  of  this  part  of  the  County.  Consider 
me  as  dead,  and  that  you  are  making  them  to  Downes, 
who  will  succeed  me.  But  go  on." 

"  Do  you  remember  me  as  a  boy  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  can  remember  you." 

"  Was  I  not  a  fearful  young  ruffian  ?  " 

"  You  and  your  brother  used  to  quarrel  and  fight  a  great 
deal." 

"  I  was  a  fearful  young  ruffian.  Perhaps  it  is  complai- 
sance, perhaps  it  is  want  of  recollection,  which  makes  you 
shake  your  head,  but  it  is  true.  Shall  I  prove  it  to  you  ? 
When  I  had  been  about  two  months  at  Eton,  the  master 
of  my  house  and  Hawtrey  were  talking  about  me.  My 
master  said,  '  That  boy  is  more  like  a  devil  than  a  human 
being ;  I  cannot  think  what  to  do  with  him.'  '  Shall  I 
expel  him  ?  '  said  the  Doctor.  '  No,'  said  the  other, 
'  for  he  is  not  vicious,  and  would  burn  his  right  hand  off 
sooner  than  lie ;  but  he's  so  fiendishly  fierce  and  wild.' 

235 


Leighton  Court 

'  Won't  the  others  lick  him  into  shape  ? '  said  the  Doc- 
tor. '  No,'  said  the  other  ;  '  there  is  no  one  in  the  house 
dare  face  him  ;  he  is  the  most  fearful  irreclaimable  little 
savage  I  ever  saw.'  So  they  spoke  of  me  that  day. 
That  night  was  probably  the  most  eventful  of  my  whole 
life. 

"  The  last  thing  I  did  before  I  went  to  bed  was  to  have 
a  perfectly  causeless  fight  with  a  boy  a  stone  heavier  than 
myself,  about  a  matter  provoked  entirely  by  my  own  evil 
temper.  He  thrashed  me  at  last,  and  I  went  to  bed  swear- 
ing, and  when  I  was  alone  sobbed  myself  to  sleep  with 
impotent  rage.  I  had  slept  but  very  little  time  when  I 
was  awoke  by  a  light  in  my  eyes  ;  and  I  started  wildly  up, 
with  clenched  fists,  thinking  they  were  come  to  bully  me. 

"  There  was  a  touch,  sir,  on  my  clenched  hand  which 
made  me  open  it.  Ah,  sir,  I  can  feel  it  now — the  touch 
of  five  long  delicate  bony  fingers,  very  warm  and  dry,  but 
very  gentle.  I  sat  up  in  bed,  and  looked  into  the  face  of 
the  owner  of  those  fingers,  and  grew  still,  and  stayed 
the  curse  which  was  on  my  lips.  I  never  uttered  that 
curse,  sir,  and  (I  speak  no  romance)  I  never  spoke  to  that 
person  before  then  or  since. 

"It  was  Lorimer,  one  of  the  biggest  boys  in  the  school : 
a  tall,  gaunt,  weak  boy,  who  could  never  play,  but  who 
must  have  played  at  some  time  or  another,  for  he  was  ap- 
pealed and  referred  to  in  almost  everything  by  the  others. 
I  had  noticed  him  about  often.  I  had  seen  him  gently 
making  the  peace  between  little  boys,  and  preventing  their 
fighting.  I  had  seen  him  walking  with  masters.  He  had 
been  ill  once,  and  I  had  heard  all  the  boys  asking  one  an- 
other how  the  '  Colonel '  was  that  morning ;  whereas 
other  boys  had  died,  and  there  had  been  no  great  talk 
about  it.  I  was  so  utterly  unpopular  that  I  had  no  con- 
fidant to  ask  about  him  ;  yet  I  had  got  up  a  sort  of  lan- 
guid interest  in  him.  He  was  not  in  my  house,  and  yet 
here  he  was,  sitting  on  my  bed,  holding  the  candle  to  my 
face,  and  stroking  my  hair. 

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Leighton  Court 

"  I  spoke  not  one  word — he  began.  He  told  me,  word 
for  word,  the  conversation  he  had  overheard  about  me, 
between  the  Doctor  and  the  Master,  but  I  remained  per- 
fectly dumb  ;  then  he  said — 

"  '  My  poor  fellow,  try  to  do  better.  I  know  you  can  if 
you  choose.  Such  a  one  as  you  were  never  made  for  de- 
struction. Has  no  one  ever  told  you  of  the  Christ  who 
died  for  you  ?  ' 

"  Before  heaven,  Sir  Charles  Seckerton,  nobody  ever 
had,  save  one — old  Mrs.  Squire,  my  nurse,  the  woman  at 
whose  deathbed  I  first  met  Laura !  With  the  exception 
of  her  quaint  Calvinistic  teaching,  I  was  as  utterly  neg- 
lected, as  regards  religious  thought,  as  any  wretched  boy 
who  sweeps  the  streets.  I  knew  my  Catechism,  Old  Tes- 
tament chronology,  and  so  forth,  just  as  I  knew  my  Ovid  ; 
but  with  regard  to  my  religious  teaching,  hers  was  all  I 
had  ever  had,  for  my  tutors  had  given  me  none  whatever. 
What  wonder  that  I  shook  my  head  at  him  ?  " 

" '  Will  you  come  to  me,  my  boy,  and  let  me  talk  to 
you  ?' 

"  I  remained  silent  as  Memnon  at  midnight.  He  little 
dreamed  how  soon  the  sun  would  rise  on  me,  and  raise 
harmonies  from  my  dead  granite.  He  gave  me  one  more 
melancholy  look  from  his  large  brown  sunken  eyes — I 
shall  never  forget  those  eyes  any  more,  Sir  Charles " 

A  long  silence.  Two  turns  up-and-down  the  terrace, 
without  a  word  spoken  on  either  side. 

"  His  footfall  had  scarcely  died  away  upon  the  stairs 
when  I  arose.  I  was  at  that  time,  poor  little  wretch  of 
thirteen  as  I  was,  in  a  general  rebellion  against  the  world. 
I  think  that  my  idea  was,  that  anything  in  the  shape  of 
constituted  authority  was  a  thing  to  be  opposed,  kicked, 
bitten,  and  generally  defied,  by  every  person  of  the  least 
spirit.  I  don't  know  why  I  took  that  resolution  into  my 
head,  but  I  know  that  I  held  to  it  with  the  most  astound- 
ing resolution — with  as  great  resolution  as  I  did  to  the  new 
line  of  conduct  on  which  I  had  determined  when  I  got  out 

237 


Leighton  Court 

of  bed,  lit  a  candle,  and  picked  up  my  Riddle  and  Arnold 
and  my  Livy  out  of  the  corner  where  I  had  hurled  them 
in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  before  I  put  out  the  light.  Part  of 
my  plan  had  been  to  refuse  learning  anything,  to  make 
myself  celebrated  as  the  very  worst  boy  in  the  school,  and 
revenge  myself  on  the  world  by  getting  expelled.  I  never 
slept  that  night  till  my  work  was  finished. 

"  I  rose  in  the  morning  a  perfectly  different  person.  I 
rose  in  my  class.  I  was  very  gentle  and  civil  to  everyone  ; 
I  gave  way  in  every  direction.  I  made  no  concealment, 
nor  any  assertion  of  the  change  in  me  ;  and  before  a  fort- 
night was  gone,  I  began  to  be  recognised  as  a  good  fellow. 
The  bitterest  thing  of  all  was  that  they  said,  in  my  hear- 
ing, that  it  was  the  thrashing  Yelverton  had  given  me  be- 
fore I  went  to  bed  that  had  changed  me  so.  Could  you 
have  stood  that  and  made  no  sign  ?  " 

"  No !     I  couldn't  have  stood  that." 

"  /  did ;  and  won  popularity  in  spite  of  it.  You  wonder 
at  this  sudden  change — indeed,  I  do  myself,  You  say  '  he 
was  more  like  a  fiend  than  a  boy,  by  all  accounts  ;  and  yet, 
because  another  boy  sat  on  his  bed  for  ten  minutes,  he 
turned  out  one  of  the  best-remembered  fellows  at  Eton. ' 
You  know  I  was  popular." 

"  Indeed,  Willy  Downes  represented  you  as  being  most 
popular." 

"  I  don't  know  that  one  ought  to  wonder.  I  am  very 
resolute — I  was  very  resolute  to  prove  myself  a  mauvats 
sujet,  and  was  equally  so  to  make  myself  the  most  popular 
fellow  in  Eton — equally  so  after  somebody  said  something 
which  sent  me  to  India.  I  wish  someone  would  guide  my 
resolutions — I  will  be  answerable  for  carrying  them  out. 
Besides,  poor  Lorimer's  visit  had  a  sentimental  effect  on 
me.  Do  you  know  that  I  am  a  bit  of  a  poet,  and  have 
written  verses  ?  " 

Sir  Charles,  not  seeing  what  else  to  say,  said  that  many 
other  perfectly  respectable  people  had  done  the  same  thing. 

"  I  know,"  said  Sir  Robert.     "  But  I  want  to  tell  you 

238 


Leighton  Court 

about  Lorimer  again.  I  never  spoke  to  that  fellow,  and 
never  would  speak  to  him.  Not  one  living  soul  in  the 
world,  except  you  and  I,  knows  that  he  came  to  my  bed- 
side that  night.  I  made  one  of  my  mulelike  resolutions  ; 
and  I  said,  '  He  shall  see  the  fruits  first,  and  then  we  shall 
talk  more  as  equals.'  The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  nearly 
the  end  of  the  half-year.  I  had  been  doing  what  I  had 
often  done  lately — making  peace  between  two  boys,  one 
of  whom  had  called  the  other  a  liar.  I  did  not  succeed, 
because  one  must  fight  over  that,  you  know ;  but  I  was 
trying  to  get  a  retraction,  and  I  said, '  What  is  the  good  of 
giving  the  lie  ? — He  believed  what  he  said — Do  be  reason- 
able, old  fellow,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  when  I  turned 
round  and  saw  Lorimer.  He  stopped  the  fight,  and  then 
he  turned  smiling  to  shake  hands  with  me.  But  the  half- 
year  was  not  over,  and  I  was  perfectly  resolute  in  my 
mulishness ;  I  turned  away.  I  never  saw  him  again." 

"  Left,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Sir  Charles,  who  was  thinking 
of  a  good  many  things. 

"  I  went  away  for  the  holidays  to  our  cousins,  the  Dorset- 
shire Poyntzes  (where  I  always  went  for  vacations),  who 
were  exceedingly  sorry  to  have  such  a  young  ruffian  foisted 
upon  them.  But  I  won  the  battle  there,  sir.  The  girls 
cried  when  I  came  away.  I  was  resolute  that  they  should 
love  me,  and  I  made  them.  Then  my  half-year's  silence 
with  Lorimer  was  finished ;  and  I  girded  up  my  loins,  and 
ran  from  Slough,  in  nine  minutes  forty  seconds,  to  meet 
him,  leaving  my  things  to  come  on  in  a  fly." 

"  And  I  guess  that  he  had  left  ?  " 

"  Dead,  sir — dead  of  consumption !  When  it  was  an- 
nounced in  school  they  wondered  why  I  burst  into  such  a 
tempest  of  tears.  Others  cried  too,  a  few  of  them,  but 
none  like  me.  And  that  interview  betwixt  him  and  me  is 
mown  only  to  you  and  I — to  God  and  himself.  The 
fellows  of  my  time,  at  Eton,  believe  to  this  day  it  was  the 
thrashing  I  got  from  poor  dear  Yelverton  the  night  before." 

Several  turns  were  taken  up-and-down  the  terrace  be- 

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fore  either  spoke.  Sir  Charles  had  by  this  time  found  out 
that  things  were  going  well  with  him.  He  was  the  first  to 
speak — 

"  Now,  I  am  going  to  have  no  more  sentimentality.  I 
have  adjured  you,  on  your  allegiance  to  the  County,  to  tell 
me,  the  head  of  that  County,  what  you  did  with  yourself 
that  year  in  which  you  were  missing.  You  have  practi- 
cally refused,  and  put  me  off  with  romantic  stories  which 
have  made  me  cry,  whereas  I  want  to  laugh.  Come  Bob, 
old  boy,  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  used  to  tip  you ;  let  me 
have  my  fun  for  my  money.  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  had  rather  not  say ;  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  But 
what  could  I  do  ?  " 

"  Out  with  it." 

"Well,  I  rode  steeplechases.  Let's  have  no  more  of 
this." 

"  I  suppose  I  mustn't  ask  your  imperial  highness  how  it 
was  you  favoured  me  with  a  visit ;  and  what  the  deuce  Sir 
George  Herage  meant  by  sending  you  here  under  false 
colours  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  what  you  mean.  The  facts  are  these. 
I  was  riding  a  horse  for  sale  there,  and  Sir  George  Herage 
recognised  me,  and  I  rode  some  horses  for  him ;  and  he 
promised  to  hold  his  tongue  about  me,  and  who  I  was", 
and  then  there  was  a  confounded  row  about  one  of  the 
girls — I  never  said  six  words  to  the  girl ;  and  then  Harry 
came  to  stay  there,  and  there  was  a  general  row.  Harry- 
denounced  me  in  the  stableyard ;  and  then  Sir  George  told 
me  privately  that  you  wanted  a  fellow,  and  I  thought  I 
would  come  and  see  the  old  place,  for  I  was  hunted  to 
death  ;  and  I  came,  and  no  one  knew  me  but  Tom  Squire 
and  his  mother.  I  was  very  happy  here.  I  got  very  fond 
of  you.  I  bullied  you  royally,  though,  didn't  I  ?  " 

"  You  did  indeed.  But  they  said  you  had  hunted  at 
Pau  ?  " 

"  That  will  pass  for  truth ;  I  was  there  six  weeks." 

"  Steeplechasing  ?  " 

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Leighton  Court 

"  Oh,  hang  the  steeplechasing !  Don't  bring  that  up 
again." 

"  But  we  were  always  hearing  from  your  brother  that 
you  were  in  India  ?  " 

"  A  pure  fiction  of  Harry's,  which  he  put  about  when  I 
disappeared  from  society.  It  was  convenient  enough  for 
me.  /  never  contradicted  it.  I  never  went  to  India,  as 
you  will  hear,  until  a  year  ago." 

"  There  is  one  other  thing  I  must  ask  you.  Lady  Herage 
sent  us  word  that  you  were  the  illegitimate  brother  (don't 
laugh)  of  yourself  and  Harry ;  that  is  why  I  received  you 
as  I  did  ?  " 

"  That  must  be  poor  Harry's  doing  ;  that  bears  his  mark 
altogether." 

"  Is  there  such  a  person  ?  " 

"  There  is.  Harry  wrote  to  me  about  him  the  other  day, 
asking  me  to  take  care  of  him  ;  but  I  have  never  seen  him 
in  my  life.  Now,  I  want  to  ask  you  one  thing.  When 
you  take  into  consideration  how  utterly  lonely  and  neg- 
lected I  have  been  all  my  life,  do  you  pronounce  that  I 
have  done  well  or  ill  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  done  wonderfully  well ! " 


Chapter  XLVII 

"  IN  time,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "  we  shall  find  out  how  you 
came  to  be  drowned.  How  pleasant  and  old-timelike  your 
voice  sounds  to  me,  Robert!  I  was  very  fond  of  you." 

Sir  Robert  laid  his  hand  on  the  old  gentleman's  shoul- 
der and  went  on — 

"  I  was  very  happy  here.  I  could  not  have  stayed  after 
Harry  came,  of  course,  but  my  visit  was  cut  short  acci- 
dentally." 

"  Indeed ! " 

"  Yes.     It  happened  all  in  one  minute,  that  an  irrepres- 

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sible  sense  of  my  degradation  and  uselessness  came  over 
me — was  forced  on  me.  I  took  one  of  my  sudden  resolu- 
tions, and  in  ten  minutes  was  turning  old  Squire  out  of  bed 
to  put  it  in  force." 

Sir  Charles  asked  no  questions  about  the  cause  of  this 
singular  resolution,  but  thought  the  more. 

"  I  wanted  him  to  get  me  '  The  Elk  ; '  I  ordered  him  to 
do  so.  I  need  not  tell  you  he  would  sooner  obey  a  Poyntz 
than  a  Seckerton.  In  ten  minutes  more  I  was  in  the  sad- 
dle, ready  for  a  wild  ride  of  five  miles  across  the  sands  to 
Berry  Head,  before  the  flowing  tide." 

"  In  the  name  of  heaven,  what  made  you  so  mad  ?  " 

"  I  partly  wanted  to  fly  from  the  place,  and  partly  I 
wanted,  with  my  usual  impetuosity,  to  get  into  action  at 
once  ;  and  the  doing  something  desperate  and  wild  suited 
my  humour  too.  Tom  Squire  did  not  know  where  I  was 
going  until  he  saw  me  turn  for  the  sands ;  and  then  he 
startled  the  night  with  a  cry  which  I  should  have  thought 
would  have  reached  you,  and  ran  after  me.  When  I  was 
a  few  hundred  yards  out  on  the  sands,  I  turned.  The 
Point  was  black  behind  me,  and  nothing  was  distinguish- 
able under  the  dark  hanging  woods  ;  but  there  came  a  wild 
shout  of  despair  from  them,  which  was  repeated  twice  and 
died  off  into  a  wild  wail ;  and  I  was  alone  far  out  on  the 
sands,  with  the  crawling  sea  on  my  right.  I  steered  by  the 
light  on  Brinkley  Cleve.  When  I  looked  back  I  could  see 
only  one  light — that  from  a  window  in  your  house.  It  was 
the  only  light  for  very  far,  and  I  waved  my  hand  in  fare- 
well to  it." 

"  It  was  the  light  in  my  daughter's  room  ;  we  calculated 
on  the  circumstance  at  the  time." 

"  When  I  was,  as  I  guessed,  about  half-way  across,  I 
began  to  see  the  utter  folly  of  which  I  had  been  guilty : 
before  I  guessed  that  the  water  was  less  than  two  hundred 
yards  off,  it  suddenly  slid  past  the  horse's  feet ;  and  though 
I  managed  to  splash  out  of  it  again,  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, for  it  was  all  round.  My  pace  became  a  walk,  and 

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Leighton  Court 

I  was,  I  guess,  two  miles  from  shore.  I  had  a  presenti- 
ment, which  almost  amounted  to  a  certainty,  that  I  should 
come  to  no  harm  ;  but  things  began  to  look  very  awkward 
indeed,  and  I  began  to  shout.  The  water  was  above  the 
horse's  girths  before  a  boat  was  near  enough  to  answer  me. 
I  got  on  board.  The  poor  horse  neighed  to  me,  as  though 
to  ask  me  by  what  means  we  had  come  into  this  strange 
position,  but  contentedly  followed  the  boat  out  into  water 
deep  enough  for  him  to  swim.  I  held  his  bridle,  and  en- 
couraged him  with  my  voice ;  but  the  swell  was  a  little  too 
heavy,  and  before  we  were  half-way  to  the  shore  his  head 
went  down ;  and  I,  finding  that  1  was  only  dragging  a 
deadweight,  let  go  of  the  bridle,  and  that  was  the  last  of 
'  The  Elk.' 

"  Now  a  new  idea  seized  me,  which  was  in  many  ways 
pleasing  to  me.  I  determined  to  disappear,  leaving  no 
traces  of  myself.  By  giving  the  men — who  were  Teign- 
mouth  men,  not  likely  to  land  here — a  couple  of  pounds, 
and  pretending  that  I  should  get  into  trouble  about  the 
horse,  I  persuaded  them  to  say  nothing  about  it.  They, 
after  a  night's  fishing,  landed  me  at  Teignmouth.  I  im- 
mediately went  off  to  London,  to  Harry.  I  threw  myself 
upon  his  generosity,  and  asked  him  to  get  me  a  commission 
in  a  regiment  going  to  India.  The  negotiation  would  have 
gone  right  from  the  first,  if  I  had  not  somewhat  foolishly 
threatened,  in  case  of  his  refusal,  to  disgrace  the  family  by 
enlisting  in  a  dragoon  regiment.  To  my  dismay  he  jumped 
at  the  idea,  and  was  very  much  taken  with  it  indeed.  He 
said  it  was  a  capital  way  to  make  an  ass  of  myself  without 
any  expense,  and  strongly  urged  me  to  do  so.  He  saw  he 
was  teasing  me,  and  went  on  ;  but  my  imperturbable  pa- 
tience was  too  much  for  him,  and  he  yielded.  I  think  you 
know  everything  now." 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  in  the  Army  ? "  asked  Sir 
Charles,  in  an  offhand  manner,  as  if  it  was  no  concern  of  his. 

"  That  is  exactly  as  Laura  chooses,"  said  the  heedless 
Robert. 

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"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Sir  Charles,  quickly. 

"  I  was  saying,"  answered  Robert,  reddening,  "  that  it 
is  just  exactly  as  Lawrence  chooses — Sir  John  Lawrence, 
you  know.  He  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  I  shall  be  en- 
tirely guided  by  him  in  this  matter." 

Sir  Charles  said  "  Yes,  I  understand ; "  and  the  next 
time  that  Robert  made  a  joke  he  laughed  at  it  very  loud 
and  long,  to  make  up  for  his  self-denial  on  this  occasion. 

There  remains  but  little  more  to  tell.  Another  chapter, 
and  our  tale  is  finished. 


Chapter  XLVIII 

A  YEAR  or  more  passed  by,  and  the  Great  Indian  Muti- 
ny had  burnt  itself  into  darkness  and  silence.  It  was  all 
over,  except  telling  the  tale  of  the  dead.  Still,  in  London 
and  elsewhere,  after  each  mail  houses  would  be  seen  with 
the  shutters  up  for  a  week  ;  and  bevies  of  girls,  who  but  a 
week  ago  were  dancing  in  their  finest  clothes,  would  be- 
gin to  creep  out  at  dusk  in  deepest  mourning,  and  say,  to 
those  who  knew  them  well  enough  to  speak  to  them  in 
their  grief,  "  that  mamma  was  not  so  wild  to-night,  but  oh, 
that  it  was  so  very  very  dreadful !  " 

In  these  times — the  times  when  the  excitement  had  died 
out,  and  the  dull  grief  was  making  itself  felt,  and  we  were 
beginning  to  count  the  cost — it  so  happened  that  Lord 
Hatterleigh  was  spending  the  last  few  days  of  his  honey- 
moon at  Dover. 

He  had  married  a  lady  who  was  pleased  to  call  herself 
Scotch,  for  what  reason  I  am  unable  to  explain.  Her  fa- 
ther, the  Marquis  of  Ericht,  had  certainly  large  posses- 
sions in  Scotland  ;  but  if  he  claimed  to  be  of  any  particu- 
lar race,  it  should  have  been  to  be  Scandinavian-French. 
However,  he  chose  to  call  himself  Scotch,  to  wear  a  kilt, 
and  to  have  that  other  barbarous  English  invention,  the 

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Leighton  Court 

bagpipes,  to  play  to  him  at  meals.  His  daughter  also  was 
a  perfect  devotee  on  the  matter  of  Scotch  nationality,  and 
it  was  no  one's  business  but  their  own  ;  and  therefore  we 
will  yield  so  far,  under  protest,  as  to  say  that  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh  had  married  a  Scotch  lady — and  an  excellent  good 
business  he  had  made  of  it. 

With  her  we  have  nothing  to  do.  She  was  a  lady  at  all 
points,  and  we  can  or  need  say  no  more.  With  regard  to 
him  we  may  say  a  few  words : — 

He  had  grown  into  a  big  and  somewhat  handsome  man  ; 
now  that  he  had  let  his  long  black  beard  grow,  he  would 
pass  muster  anywhere — nay,  do  more  than  pass  muster. 
His  broad  shoulders  were  still  so  loosely  hung,  that  one 
could  not  help  wishing  that  some  drill-sergeant  had  taken 
him  in  hand,  and  forced  him  to  hold  his  really  fine  head 
higher.  There  was  only  one  symptom  of  his  old  muffish- 
ness  left  about  him.  He  had  clung  to  that  old  valetudi- 
narian self-considering  creed,  which  he  had  got,  after  all, 
from  his  mother,  as  long  as  he  could  ;  but  he  had  been 
driven  from  point  to  point  of  it — first  by  Laura  Seckerton 
(now  Lady  Poyntz),  and  secondly  by  Lady  Jane  Porto- 
bello,  his  present  bride — until  he  had  hardly  any  of  it  left. 
The  old  creed  was  very  dear  to  him,  but  he  had  been 
laughed  out  of  it.  He  made  a  stand  at  a  certain  point : 
he  took  to  wearing  spectacles.  That  there  was  nothing 
the  matter  with  his  eyesight  he  had  to  confess  to  Brad- 
bury, at  whose  shop  he  bought  his  spectacles.  And  so 
Bradbury  gave  him  a  pair  with  flat  glass  lenses.  These 
spectacles  were  only  the  last  appeal  for  extra-considera- 
tion by  a  man  who  had  been  taught  by  his  mother  to  ap- 
peal to  the  pity  of  society,  and  who  was  growing  out  of 
that  humbug  rapidly.  What  need  to  say  more  of  Lord 
Hatterleigh  ?  Some  say  they  know  him,  and  that  he  is 
showing  an  honesty  and,  what  is  more,  a  power  which  is 
making  itself  felt.  You  could  count  on  your  fingers  the 
men  who  are  able,  so  well  as  he,  to  remember  old  incon- 
sistencies, and  to  hang  them  up  to  ridicule. 

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Leighton  Court 

It  so  happened  that  Lord  Hatterleigh  and  his  wife  were 
walking  on  the  pier  at  Dover,  up-and-down,  taking  their 
airing  in  the  full  blast  of  a  south-easterly  wind,  when  they 
noticed  a  movement  among  the  sailors  on  the  quay,  and 
at  the  same  time  saw  that  a  large  ship  was  coming  into 
the  harbour.  He  asked  the  reason  of  the  harbourmaster, 
who  was  known  to  him. 

"  It  is  the  Supply,  my  lord,  with  invalided  troops  from 
India.  We  sent  a  boat  out  to  her,  and  the  officer  com- 
manding the  soldiers  has  persuaded  the  captain  to  put  in 
here.  He  prefers  taking  his  men  on  by  rail  to  Chatham, 
to  forcing  the  ship  round  to  Chatham  by  sea.  There  are 
many  dead,  and  many  dying." 

"  My  love,"  said  Lord  Hatterleigh  to  his  bride,  "  we  had 
better  go  home  to  lunch." 

"  George,"  she  said,  "  I  must  see  these  men  land.  I 
don't  want  to  go  back  to  lunch  ;  I  must  see  this." 

"  It  will  not  be  at  all  a  fit  sight  for  you,"  said  Lord  Hat- 
terleigh. "  Your  mother  would  be  furious  if  she  heard  of 
it." 

"  But  we  needn't  tell  her,"  said  Lady  Hatterleigh. 

"  But  my  mother  would  never  forgive  me,"  said  Lord 
Hatterleigh. 

"  Then  tell  her  to  mind  her  own  business.  Do  let  me 
stay,  George ! " 

After  this  appeal  there  was  no  more  to  be  said,  and  there 
never  is.  When  will  women  gain  the  secret  of  power  ? 

The  ship  was  alongside  the  pier  by  this  time,  and  the 
London,  Chatham,  and  Dover  Company  had  a  special 
train  ready  for  them ;  and  the  victims  of  the  war  began  to 
creep  ashore — some  nearly  well,  but  looking  like  old  men  ; 
some  maimed,  walking  on  crutches ;  some  beyond  every- 
thing, carried  with  hanging  limbs  in  the  arms  of  the  sail- 
ors. But  there  was  one  among  them  on  whom  everyone 
looked  with  greater  interest  than  the  others,  and  that  was 
the  officer  in  command  of  this  regiment  of  ghosts,  himself 
the  most  ghostly  object  there. 

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Leighton  Court 

He  was  a  very  tall  and  handsome  man,  in  full  uniform, 
covered  with  Crimean  and  the  older  Indian  decorations. 
One  armless  sleeve  was  looped  up  over  his  breast ;  but  it 
was  not  that  which  drew  all  eyes  to  him,  for  there  were 
plenty  like  him  in  that  respect — it  was  his  face.  There 
were  pale  faces  there,  but  none  so  deadly  white  as  his ; 
and  there  were  sad  faces  too,  but  none  so  sad  and  worn  as 
his.  Lady  Hatterleigh  called  her  husband's  attention  to 
him,  saying — 

"  If  I  look  at  that  man  much  longer  I  shall  begin  to 
cry." 

Lord  Hatterleigh  turned  and  looked  the  way  she  indi- 
cated, and  as  he  did  so  exclaimed — 

"  Bless  me,  how  dreadful !  It  is  Hilton  ;  and  his  arm 
gone." 

His  good-natured  soul  overflowed  at  the  sight  of  his  old 
acquaintance  in  such  a  plight ;  and  he  made  towards  Hil- 
ton, and  took  his  solitary  hand  in  both  of  his.  A  very 
faint  smile  came  over  Hilton's  face  when  he  recognised 
Lord  Hatterleigh  behind  his  beard  and  spectacles,  but  it 
died  away  again. 

"  Come,  you  can  laugh  still,  you  see  ;  was  it  my  spec- 
tacles you  were  laughing  at,  or  my  beard  ?  I  won't  ask 
how  you  are,  for  you  are  very  ill  indeed,  and  must  be  ta- 
ken care  of.  You  must  come  to  Grimwood  instantly,  and 
my  wife  shall  nurse  you.  I  am  married  now,  you  know. 
Hilton  !  Hilton  !  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  ? 
You  have  been  at  death's  door.  You  must  come  home 
with  us  to  Grimwood  directly,  and  be  nursed.  The  wom- 
en will  all  be  fighting  who  is  to  attend  on  you.  The 
Duchess  of  Pozzo  d'Oro  is  at  Hoxworthy  with  her  father  ; 
you  remember  Constance  Downes  ?  And  again,"  he  con- 
tinued, taking  off  his  spectacles,  and  fixing  an  honest 
manly  eye  on  General  Hilton's,  "  there  is  Lady  Poyntz ; 
she  would  form  one  of  the  Nightingale  sisterhood,  my 
dear  fellow.  How  you  and  Laura  used  to  squabble  and 
fight,  to  be  sure  !  She  is  down  there  also " 

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Leighton  Court 

"  Lady  Poyntz  !  "  said  Hilton,  clutching  his  arm  ;  "  is 
she  there  ?  " 

"  Not  the  dowager,  you  know  ;  not  Maria  Huxtable — 
Laura  Seckerton,  I  mean.  She  pitched  me  overboard, 
you  know,  and  married  Sir  Robert  Poyntz,  who  had  been 
down  there  before,  masquerading,  as  a  foxhunter  from 
Leicestershire,  and  got  drowned,  and  buried,  and  sundry. 
Not  that  Miss  Seckerton  did  not  behave  nobly,  sir — but 
that  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  must  come  to  Grimwood, 
and  all  the  old  set  will  vie  with  one  another  in  taking  care 
of  their  dear  old  Bayard." 

General  Hilton  did  not  speak  for  nearly  a  minute  ;  and 
then  he  said,  very  low,  but  without  a  quaver  in  his 
voice : — 

"  How  monstrous  kind  you  are,  Hatterleigh  !  If  I  ever 
had  been  upset  in  a  sentimental  way,  I  should  be  so  now. 
I  am  not  all  sure  that  I  could  have  answered  you  a 
moment  sooner  than  I  did,  though.  I  am  very  weak  and 
ill,  and  your  wonderful  kindness  has,  I  will  confess,  dis- 
composed me.  Will  you  do  something  for  me  ?  " 

"Is  there  anything  I  would  not  ?  "  said  Lord  Hatter- 
leigh. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  '  Lord  Warden,'  and  ask  if 
anyone  is  waiting  for  me  there.  Lest  you  should  be 
puzzled,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  had  persuaded  the  captain 
to  come  in  close  enough  to  land  me  here.  I  thought  that 
Chatham,  or  even  London,  would  not  do  so  well  under  the 
circumstances.  We  have  all  had  to  land  here,  as  you  see." 

Lord  Hatterleigh 's  face  grew  pensive,  but  rapidly  began 
to  brighten  again. 

"  It  is  well  as  it  is,"  he  said.  "  I  was  beginning  to  get 
uneasy  at  what  seemed  to  me  an  extraordinary  conjunc- 
tion of  circumstances ;  now  I  see  it  was  designed.  You 
asked  me  if  I  would  go  to  the  '  Lord  Warden  '  for  you 
with  an  enquiry.  I  can  answer  that  enquiry  for  you,  and 
the  answer  is  '  Yes.'  " 

Nothing  more  worth  mentioning  was  said.     The  special 

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train,  with  the  wounded  soldiers,  moved  away,  leaving 
General  Hilton,  with  Lord  and  Lady  Hatterleigh,  standing 
on  the  pier.  There  were  a  few  feeble  cheers  as  the  car- 
riages moved  on,  and  a  few  wasted  hands  were  waved  tow- 
ards the  kind  and  gentle  general,  who,  in  all  his  own 
agonies,  had  crept  about  from  deck  to  deck,  to  see  to  the 
wants  of  the  strange  soldiers  who  had  been  committed  to 
his  care. 

Then  the  three  walked  to  the  hotel ;  and  Hilton  soon 
was  alone  in  his  rooms,  lying  on  a  sofa,  watching  the 
door,  waiting  eagerly  for  each  footfall  on  the  corridor. 
But  no  footfall  came,  and  after  a  time  he  turned  from  the 
door,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

There  was  no  footfall  in  the  corridor,  and  he  never  heard 
the  door  open ;  but  after  a  time  he  was  aware  of  a  pres- 
ence in  the  room,  and  he  said,  "  Is  it  you  ?  " 

And  a  voice  answered,  "  George  !  " 

"  Maria,  come  to  me — oh,  Maria,  come  to  me  !  I  have 
been  through  one  hell  of  blood  ferocity,  and  doubt  about 
the  righteousmess  of  my  cause ;  and  since  then  through 
another  physical  agony,  of  ghastly  remorse,  of  wild 
triumph.  Ever  since  I  lost  my  arm,  and  the  fever  came  on 
me,  and  brought  me  to  what  you  see,  there  has  been  a 
devil  dancing  before  me,  and  crying,  '  On  which  side  is 
the  Dacoitee?  On  which  side  is  the  Dacoitee? — on 
theirs  or  on  yours  ? '  Come  to  me,  and  drive  him  away. 
Come  to  me,  and  never  leave  me  again  !  " 

And  so  she  came  to  him ;  for  there  was  no  cloud  be- 
tween them  now.  Lord  Hatterleigh,  coming  in  later, 
found  the  wild  mournful  look  gone  from  his  face,  and  the 
old  Hilton  of  last  year,  smiling  and  happy,  before  him. 
"  We  will  come  to  you  at  Grimwood  after  our  honeymoon, 
Hatterleigh,"  he  said — a  promise  which  was  fulfilled  be- 
fore two  happy  months  had  rolled  past. 

Leighton  Court,  Berry  Morcambe  (otherwise  Poyntz 
Castle),  Hoxworthy  of  the  Downes's,  and  Grimwood  of 
the  Hatterleighs,  and  a  new  one — Evvbank,  the  residence 

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Lcighton  Court 

of  General  and  Mrs.  Hilton — are  very  charming  country- 
houses,  somewhat  too  far  from  London  perhaps,  but  still 
very  charming  indeed,  whose  history  for  eighteen  months 
seemed  to  be  worth  the  telling.  Their  present  occupants 
are  in  possession  of  health  and  happiness,  apparently  un- 
clouded. 

In  conclusion  let  me  say,  using  far  more  beautiful  words 
than  any  which  I  could  write  : — 

"  In  vertue  and  in  holy  almesse  dede, 
They  liven  alle,  and  never  asonder  wende, 
Till  deth  departeth  hem  this  lif  they  lede. 
And  fareth  now  wel,  my  tale  is  at  an  ende, 
Now  Jesu  Christ,  that  of  His  might  may  send 
Joye  after  wo,  governe  us  in  His  grace, 
And  kepe  us  alle  that  ben  in  this  place." 


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DATE  DUE 


GAYUORD 


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